HAZELTINE 


I"- 


(53} 

133 


THE  SABLE  LORCHA 


-2 


.1 
1 


E 


THE 

SABLE    LORCHA 


BY 

HORACE  HAZELTINE 

AUTHOR  OF   "THE  CITY  OF  ENCOUNTEHS" 


WITH  EIGHT  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
J.  J.  GOULD 

SECOND  EDITION 


CHICAGO 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1912 


COPYRIGHT 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1912 


Published  February,  1912 
Second  Edition,  March  2,  1912 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 


PRESS  OF   THE  VAIL    COMPANY 
COSHOCTON,    U.    S.    A. 


TO 
HERMANN  J.  BOLDT,  M.D. 

IN  PROFOUND  APPRECIATION  OF  HIS  SURGICAL  SKILL,  WHICH 
MADE  THE  SEASON  OF  THIS  STORY'S  COMPLETION  ONE 
OF  JOYOUS   THANKSGIVING,  IT   IS  AFFECTION- 
ATELY AND  GRATEFULLY  DEDICATED  BY 
THE  AUTHOR 


2136125   ' 


CONTENTS 


I  THE  VANISHING  PORTRAIT      . 

II  RIFLE  SHOTS  ECHO  IN  THE  WOODS  . 

III  THE  TARGET 

IV  THE  CHINESE  SERVANT 

V  FOUND  DEAD 

VI  NELL  GWYNNE'S  MIRROR        . 

VII  "FROM  SIGHT  OF  MEN  INTO  TORMENT" 

VIII  SOMEWHERE  EAST  OF  NANTUCKET    . 

IX  A  CRAFT  WITHOUT  LIGHTS    . 

X  A  WOMAN  OF  INTUITION        . 

XI  THE  CHINESE  MERCHANT      . 

XII  "WE  WERE  IN  PEKING  TOGETHER"    . 

XIII  WHEN  DAMON  DOUBTED  PYTHIAS 

XIV  THE  DARK  OF  DOYERS  STREET   . 

XV  AMYL  PEARLS 

XVI  A  SLUMP  IN  CRYSTAL  CONSOLIDATED 

XVII  OPPOSITE  THE  CATHEDRAL     . 

XVIII  THREE  PROMISES 

XIX  THE  PANG  OF  DISILLUSION    . 

XX  AN  ENIGMA  AND  ITS  SOLUTION   . 

XXI  WHEN  THE  DOORS  PARTED    . 

XXII  THE  SCUTTLED  SHIP        . 

XXIII  A  TATTOO  MARK 

XXIV  ANOTHER  PROBLEM  CROPS  UP    .      . 

XXV  ENEMIES  FACE  TO  FACE  . 

XXVI  His  SISTER  CONFESSOR      .... 

XXVII  THE  TORTOISE  AND  THE  HARE  . 

XXVIII  A  FINAL  PROBLEM  .     « 


9 

30 
43 
52 
63 
76 
89 
106 


135 
150 
165 
176 
184 
197 
211 
224 
235 
250 
259 
272 
280 
294 
308 
322 


359 
375 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"The  police,  I  should  say,  know  the  class  you 

seek  better  than  I" Frontispiece 

"It  is  something  that  grips  you  when  you  read,  like  an 

icy  hand" 22 

"But  it  is  n't  curiosity,"  she  corrected.     "It 's  interest."     92 

For  a  full  minute  she  said  nothing 138 

At  the  head  of  the  steps  he  paused  uncertainly     .      .      .    192 
At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  Evelyn  joined  me     ...   804 
For  just  a  moment  I  was  on  the  point  of  yielding     .      .   324 
Casting  himself  forward  into  my  arms,  buried  his  face  in 
the  angle  of  my  neck  and  shoulder 372 


THE  SABLE  LORCHA 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  VANISHING  PORTRAIT 

TfVELYN  GRAYSON,  meeting  me  on  the  old 
Boston  Post  Road,  between  Greenwich  and 
Stamford,  gave  me  a  message  from  her  uncle.  That 
is  the  logical  beginning  of  this  story;  though  to  make 
everything  quite  clear  from  the  start  it  may  be  better 
to  hark  back  a  few  months,  to  the  day  on  which  Evelyn 
Grayson  and  I  first  met. 

Then,  as  now,  we  were  each  driving  our  own  car: 
she,  a  great  sixty  horse-power  machine,  all  glisten- 
ing pale  yellow,  and  I,  a  compact  six-cylinder  racer, 
of  dull  dusty  gray.  But  we  were  not  on  any  such 
broad,  roomy  thoroughfare  as  the  Boston  Post  Road. 
On  the  contrary  we  were  short-cutting  through  a  nar- 
row, rough  lane,  beset  by  stone  walls  and  interrupted 
at  intervals  by  a  series  of  sharp  and  treacherous 
angles. 

[9] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

I  know  I  shall  never  forget  the  momentary  impres- 
sion I  received.  Out  of  the  golden  sunlight,  it  seemed 
to  me,  there  had  emerged  suddenly  a  tableau  of  Queen 
Titania  on  a  topaz  throne  —  the  fairest  Queen  Ti- 
tania  imagination  ever  conjured  —  and  I,  in  my  mad, 
panting  speed  was  about  to  crash  into  the  gauzy  fabric 
of  that  dream  creation  and  rend  it  with  brutal,  tortur- 
ing onrush  of  relentless,  hard-driven  nickel  steel.  I 
take  no  credit  to  myself  for  what  I  did.  Volition  was 
absent.  My  hands  acted  on  an  impulse  above  and 
beyond  all  tardy  mental  guidance.  For  just  a  flash- 
ing instant  the  gray  nose  of  my  car  rose  before  me,  as 
in  strenuous  assault  it  mounted  half  way  to  the  coping 
of  the  roadside  wall.  I  felt  my  seat  dart  away  from 
beneath  me,  was  conscious  of  my  body  in  swift,  un- 
supported aerial  flight,  and  then  —  but  it  is  idle 
to  attempt  to  set  down  the  conglomerate  sensations 
of  that  small  fraction  of  a  second.  When  I  regained 
consciousness,  Queen  Titania  was  kneeling  in  the  dust 
of  the  lane  beside  me  —  a  very  distressed  and  anxious 
Queen  Titania,  with  wide,  startled  eyes,  and  quiver- 
ingly  sympathetic  lips  —  and  about  us  were  a  half 
dozen  or  more  of  the  vicinal  country  folk. 

Between  that  meeting  in  mid-May  and  this  meeting 
on  the  old  Boston  Post  Road  in  mid- September,  there 
had  been  others,  of  course;  for  Queen  Titania,  whose 

[10] 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

every-day  name,  as  I  have  said,  was  Evelyn  Grayson, 
was  the  niece  and  ward  of  my  nearest  neighbor,  Mr. 
Robert  Cameron,  a  gentleman  recently  come  to  reside 
on  what  for  a  century  and  more  had  been  known  as 
the  old  Townsbury  Estate,  extending  for  quite  a  mile 
along  the  Connecticut  shore  of  Long  Island  Sound  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Greenwich. 

The  intervening  four  months  had  witnessed  the 
gradual  growth  of  as  near  an  approach  to  intimacy 
between  Cameron  and  myself  as  was  possible  con- 
sidering the  manner  of  man  that  Cameron  was.  By 
which  statement  I  mean  to  imply  naught  to  my  neigh- 
bor's discredit.  He  was  in  all  respects  admirable  — 
a  gentleman  of  education  and  culture,  widely  trav- 
elled, of  exalted  ideals  and  noble  principles  to  which 
he  gave  rigid  adherence.  But  —  I  was  about  to 
qualify  this  by  describing  him  as  reserved  and  taci- 
turn. I  fear,  though,  to  give  a  wrong  impression. 
He  was  scarcely  that.  There  were  moments,  how- 
ever, when  he  was  unresponsive,  and  he  was  never 
demonstrative.  He  had  more  poise  than  any  man  I 
know.  He  allowed  you  to  see  just  so  much  of  him, 
and  no  more.  At  times  he  was  almost  stubbornly 
reticent.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  these  qualities,  which 
appeared  to  be  cultivated  rather  than  inherent,  he  gave 
repeated  evidence  of  a  nature  at  once  so  simple  and 

[11] 


THE    SABLE    LORCHA 

kindly  and  sympathetic  as  to  command  both  confidence 
and  affection. 

To  the  progress  of  my  intimacy  with  Evelyn  there 
had  been  no  such  temperamental  impediment.  She 
was  fearlessly  outspoken,  with  the  frankness  born  of 
unspoiled  innocence;  barely  six  weeks  having  elapsed 
between  her  graduation  from  the  tiny  French  con- 
vent of  Sainte  Barbe  near  Paris  and  our  perilous 
encounter  in  that  contracted,  treacherous,  yet  blessed 
little  Connecticut  lane.  And  she  possessed,  more- 
over, a  multiplicity  of  additional  charms,  both  of  per- 
son and  disposition  —  charms  too  numerous  indeed  to 
enumerate,  and  far  too  sacred  to  discuss.  From 
which  it  may  rightly  be  inferred  that  we  understood 
each  other,  Evelyn  and  I,  and  that  we  were  already 
considerably  beyond  the  state  or  condition  of  mere 
formal  acquaintanceship. 

It  was  no  Queen  Titania  who  now  came  gliding  to  a 
stand  beside  me  on  the  broad,  level,  well-oiled  high- 
way, under  a  double  row  of  arching  elms.  It  was  no 
gossamer  fairy,  but  Hebe,  the  Goddess  of  Youth, 
with  creamy  skin  and  red  lips  and  a  lilting  melody 
of  voice : 

"What  ho,  Sir  Philip!    We  are  well  met!" 

And  then  she  told  me  that  her  Uncle  Robert  had 

[12] 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

telephoned  for  me,  leaving  a  message  with  my  man, 
bidding  me  come  to  him  at  my  earliest  leisure. 

"Why  not  come  for  dinner?"  she  added;  and  her 
eyes  gave  accent  to  her  words. 

"But  you?"  I  queried;  for  her  car  was  headed  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

"I  am  going  only  to  Noroton.  I  have  a  hamper 
in  the  tonneau  for  that  poor  O'Malley  family.  I 
shall  be  back  in  time.  We  dine  at  half -past  seven, 
you  know.  You  '11  come?" 

"Of  course  I  '11  come,"  I  answered  her.  I  think 
she  must  have  heard  more  in  my  voice  than  the  simple 
words,  for  her  lids  drooped,  for  just  a  breath,  and  the 
color  flamed  sudden  below  her  lowered  lashes. 

But,  after  all,  I  saw  very  little  of  her  that  evening. 
It  is  true  that  she  sat  on  my  right  at  table,  piquantly, 
youthfully  beautiful  in  the  softly  tinted  light  which 
filtered  through  the  pink  and  silver  filigree  candle- 
shades,  but  the  atmosphere  of  the  dinner  was  tinged 
by  a  vague,  unreasoning  constraint  as  from  some 
ominously  brooding  yet  undefinable  influence  which 
overhung  the  three  of  us.  And  when  the  coffee  and 
liqueurs  were  served,  employing  some  slender  pretext 
for  her  going,  she  bade  us  good-night,  and  left  us,  not 
to  return. 

[18] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

In  justice  to  Cameron,  I  must  add  that  he  appeared 
least  affected  by  —  and  certainly  in  no  wise  respon- 
sible for  —  the  pervading  inf estivity.  He  had  been, 
indeed,  rather  less  demure  than  was  often  his  wont, 
chatting  with  almost  gayety  concerning  Evelyn's  new 
role  of  Lady  Bountiful  and  of  her  Noroton  bene- 
ficiaries. As  for  the  subject  upon  which  he  desired  to 
consult  me,  it  had  not  been  so  much  as  mentioned; 
so  in  looking  back,  it  seems  impossible  that  matters 
of  which  neither  Evelyn  nor  I  was  at  the  time  in- 
formed could  have  exerted  an  effect,  save  through 
Cameron's  undetected,  subconscious  inducement. 

Even  after  his  niece  had  withdrawn,  Cameron  con- 
tinued for  a  time  to  discuss  with  me  topics  of  general 
and  public,  rather  than  personal,  import.  He  spoke. 
I  remember,  of  a  series  of  articles  on  "The  Commer- 
cial Resources  of  the  United  States,"  the  publication 
of  which  had  just  begun  in  The  Week,  of  which  I  am 
owner  and  editor;  and  though  I  fancied  at  first  that 
it  might  be  in  this  connection  he  wished  to  consult 
me,  I  very  soon  discerned  that  he  was  merely  using  a 
statement  contained  therein  as  a  text  for  certain  views 
of  his  own  on  the  conservation  and  development  of 
the  country's  timber  supply. 

I  go  thus  into  what  may  seem  uninteresting  detail, 
partly  that  I  may  give  a  hint  as  to  the  character  of 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

Cameron's  mind,  but  more  especially  to  indicate  how 
lightly  he  would  have  had  me  think  he  regarded  that 
for  which  he  sought  me. 

Meanwhile  my  curiosity  grew  keener.  It  was 
natural,  I  suppose,  that  I  should  fancy  Evelyn  in- 
volved in  some  way.  In  fact  I  then  attributed  the 
depression  during  dinner  to  her  knowledge  of  what 
her  uncle  and  guardian  purposed  to  say  to  me. 
Likewise  I  found  in  this  conception  the  reason  for 
her  sudden  and  unusual  desertion.  Hitherto  when  I 
had  dined  here  Evelyn  had  remained  with  us  while 
we  smoked  our  cigarettes,  leading  us  at  length  to  the 
music  room,  where  for  a  glad  half -hour  the  rich  mel- 
ody of  her  youthfully  sweet  contralto  voice  mingled 
in  pleasing  harmony  with  her  own  piano  accompani- 
ment. 

And  while  I  vainly  made  effort  to  imagine  wherein 
I  might  have  laid  myself  open  to  the  disapproval  of 
this  most  punctilious  of  guardians  —  for  I  expected 
nothing  less  than  a  studiously  polite  reference  to  some 
shortcoming  of  which  I  had  been  unwittingly  guilty 
—  I  momentarily  lost  track  of  my  host's  discourse. 
Emerging  from  my  abstraction  it  was  with  a  measure 
of  relief  that  I  heard  him  saying : 

"I  think  you  told  me  once,  Clyde,  that  you  rather 
prided  yourself  on  your  ability  to  get  a  line  on  one's 

[15] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

character  from  his  handwriting.  That 's  why  I  tele- 
phoned for  you  this  afternoon.  I  have  received  an 
anonymous  letter." 

There  was  an  all  too  apparent  assumption  of  non- 
chalance in  his  manner  of  expression  to  deceive  even 
the  least  observant,  of  which  I  am  not  one.  The  ef- 
fect was  to  augment  the  seriousness  of  the  revelation. 
I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  more  disquieted  than  he 
would  have  me  know. 

He  was  leaning  forward,  a  little  constrainedly,  his 
left  hand  gripping  the  arm  of  his  chair,  the  fingers  of 
his  right  hand  toying  with  the  stem  of  his  gold- 
rimmed  Bohemian  liqueur  glass. 

"An  anonymous  letter!"  I  repeated,  with  a  depre- 
catory smile.  "Anonymous  letters  should  be  burned 
and  forgotten.  Surely  you  're  not  bothering  about 
the  writer?" 

I  wish  I  could  put  before  you  an  exact  reproduction 
of  Cameron's  face  as  I  then  saw  it ;  those  rugged  out- 
lines, the  heritage  of  Scottish  ancestry,  softened  and 
refined  by  a  brilliant  intellectuality;  the  sturdy  chin 
and  square  jaw;  the  heavy  underlip  meeting  the  upper 
in  scarcely  perceptible  curve ;  the  broad,  homely  nose ; 
the  small,  but  alert,  gray  eyes,  shining  through  the 
round  lenses  of  his  spectacles;  the  high,  broad,  slop- 
ing, white  brow  and  the  receding  border  of  dark 

[16] 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

brown,  slightly  grizzled  hair.  That,  superficially, 
was  the  face.  But  I  saw  more  than  that.  In  the 
visage  of  one  naturally  brave  I  saw  a  battle  waged 
behind  a  mask  —  a  battle  between  courage  and  fear; 
and  I  saw  fear  win. 

Then  the  mask  became  opaque  once  more,  and 
Cameron,  giving  me  smile  for  smile,  was  replying. 

"There  are  anonymous  letters  and  anonymous 
letters.  Ordinarily  your  method  is  the  one  I  should 
pursue.  Indeed  I  may  say  that  when,  about  a 
month  or  so  ago,  I  received  a  communication  of  that 
character,  I  did  almost  precisely  what  you  now  ad- 
vise. Certainly  I  followed  one-half  of  your  pre- 
scription —  I  forgot  the  letter ;  though,  for  lack  of 
fire  in  the  dog  days,  I  did  not  burn  it,  but  thrust  it 
into  a  drawer  with  an  accumulation  of  advertising 
circulars." 

My  apprehension  lest  Evelyn  and  I  were  person- 
ally affected  had  been  by  now  quite  dissipated.  It 
was  perfectly  apparent  to  me  that  Cameron  alone 
was  involved ;  yet  my  anxiety  was  none  the  less  eager. 
Already  my  sympathy  and  cooperation  were  enlisted. 
I  could  only  hope  that  he  had  mentally  exaggerated 
the  gravity  of  the  situation,  yet  my  judgment  of  him 
was  that  his  inclination  would  be  to  err  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

2  [17] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

"And  now  something  has  happened  to  recall  it  to 
your  memory?" 

"Something  happened  very  shortly  after  its  re- 
ceipt," he  replied.  "Something  very  puzzling.  But 
in  spite  of  that,  I  was  inclined  to  treat  the  matter  as 
a  bit  of  clever  chicanery,  devised  for  the  purpose, 
probably,  of  extortion.  As  such,  I  again  put  it  from 
my  thoughts;  but  to-day  I  received  a  second  letter, 
and  I  admit  I  am  interested.  The  affair  has  features 
which  make  it,  indeed,  uncommonly  perplexing." 

I  fear  my  imagination  was  sluggish.  Although, 
in  spite  of  his  dissemblance,  I  saw  that  he  was 
strangely  moved  by  these  happenings,  I  could  fancy 
no  very  terrifying  concomitants  of  the  rather  com- 
monplace facts  he  had  narrated.  For  anonymous 
letters  I  had  ever  held  scant  respect.  An  ambushed 
enemy,  I  argued,  is  admittedly  a  coward.  And  so  I 
was  in  danger  of  growing  impatient. 

"When  the  second  letter  came,"  he  continued, 
bringing  his  left  hand  forward  to  join  his  right  on 
the  dazzling  white  ground  of  the  table's  damask,  "I 
searched  among  the  circulars  for  the  first,  and  found 
it.  I  want  you  to  see  them  both.  The  writing  is 
very  curious  —  I  have  never  seen  anything  just  like 
it  —  and  the  signature,  if  I  may  call  it  that,  is  still 

[18] 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

more  singular.  On  the  first  letter,  I  took  it  for  a 
blot.  But  on  the  second  letter  occurs  the  same  black 
blur  or  smudge  of  identical  outline." 

Of  course  I  thought  of  the  Black  Hand.  It  was 
the  natural  corollary,  seeing  that  the  newspapers  had 
been  giving  us  a  surfeit  of  Black  Hand  threats  and 
Black  Hand  outrages.  But,  somehow,  I  did  not  dare 
to  voice  it.  To  have  suggested  anything  so  ordinary 
to  Cameron  in  his  present  mood  would  have  been  to 
offer  him  offence. 

And  when,  at  the  next  moment,  he  drew  from  an 
inner  pocket  of  his  evening  coat  two  thin,  wax-like 
sheets  of  paper  and  passed  them  to  me,  I  was  glad 
that  I  had  kept  silence.  For  the  letters  were  no 
rough,  rude  scrawls  of  an  illiterate  Mafia  or  Camorra. 
In  phraseology  as  well  as  in  penmanship  they  were 
impressively  unique. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  Cameron  was  saying,  "you 
might  read  them  aloud." 

He  rose  and  switched  on  a  group  of  electric  wall 
lights  at  my  back,  and  I  marked  for  the  hundredth 
time  his  superb  physique  —  his  towering  height,  his 
powerful  shoulders,  his  leanness  of  hip  and  sturdy 
straightness  of  limb.  He  did  not  look  the  forty  years 
to  which  he  confessed. 

[19] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

One  of  the  long  French  windows  which  gave  upon 
the  terrace  stood  ajar,  and  before  resuming  his  seat 
Cameron  paused  to  close  it,  dropping  over  it  the 
looped  curtains  of  silver  gray  velvet  that  matched  the 
walls. 

In  the  succeeding  moment  the  room  was  ghostly 
silent;  and  then,  breaking  against  the  stillness,  was 
the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  reading : 

"That  which  you  have  wrought  shall  in  turn 
be  wrought  upon  you.  Take  warning  therefore 
of  what  shall  happen  on  the  seventh  day  hence. 
As  sun  follows  sun,  so  follows  all  that  is  decreed. 
The  ways  of  our  God  are  many.  On  the  right- 
eous He  showers  blessings;  on  the  evil  He  pours 
misery." 

That  was  the  first  letter.  The  second  began  with 
the  same  sentence : 

"That  which  you  have  wrought  shall  in  turn 
be  wrought  upon  you." 

But  there,  though  the  similarity  of  tenor  continued, 
the  verbal  identity  ceased.  It  went  on : 

"Once  more,  as  earnest  of  what  is  decreed, 
there  will  be  shown  unto  you  a  symbol  of  our 
power.  Precaution  cannot  avail.  Fine  words 
and  a  smiling  countenance  make  not  virtue" 

[20] 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

And  beneath  each  letter  was  the  strange  silhouette 
which  Cameron  had  mentioned. 

It  is  difficult  for  me  to  convey  the  most  meagre 
idea  of  the  emotional  influence  which  these  two 
brief  communications  exerted.  They  seemed  to 
breathe  a  grim  spirit  of  implacable  Nemesis  far  in 
excess  of  anything  to  be  found  in  the  euphemism  of 
the  written  words. 

When  I  had  finished  the  reading  of  them  aloud, 
Cameron,  leaning  far  back  in  his  chair,  sat  silently 
thoughtful,  his  eyes  narrowed  behind  his  glasses,  but 
fixed  apparently  upon  the  lights  behind  me.  And  so, 
reluctant  to  interrupt  his  reverie,  I  started  to  read 
them  through  again  slowly,  this  time  to  myself,  fixing 
each  sentence  indelibly  in  mind  as  I  proceeded.  But 
before  I  had  quite  come  to  the  end,  my  companion 
was  speaking. 

"Well?"  he  said.  And  the  light  cheeriness  of  his 
tone  was  not  only  in  marked  contrast  with  his  grave 
absorption  of  a  moment  before,  but  in  jarring  discord 
with  my  own  present  mood.  "Well?  What  do  you 
make  of  them?" 

My  annoyance  found  voice  in  my  response. 

"Cameron,"  I  begged,  "for  God's  sake  be  serious. 
This  does  n't  seem  to  me  exactly  a  matter  to  be  merry 
over.  I  don't  want  to  alarm  you,  but  somehow  I  feel 

[21] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

that  these — "  and  I  shook  the  crackling,  wax-like 
sheets,  "that  these  cannot  be  utterly  ignored." 

"But  they  are  anonymous,"  he  retorted,  not  un- 
justly. "Anonymous  letters  should  be  burned  and 
forgotten." 

"There  are  anonymous  letters  and  anonymous  let- 
ters," I  gave  him  back,  in  turn.  "These  are  of  an 
unusually  convincing  character.  Besides,  they — " 
And  then  I  paused.  I  wished  to  tell  him  of  that 
elusive  encompassment  of  sinister  portent  which  had 
so  impressed  me;  of  that  malign  foreboding  beyond 
anything  warranted  by  the  words;  but  I  stumbled  in 
the  effort  at  expression.  "Besides,"  I  started  again, 
and  ended  lamely,  "I  don't  like  the  look  and  the  feel 
of  them." 

And  now  he  was  as  serious  as  I  could  wish. 

"Ah!"  he  cried,  leaning  forward  again  and  reach- 
ing for  the  letters.  "You  have  experienced  it,  too! 
And  you  can't  explain  it,  any  more  than  I?  It  is 
something  that  grips  you  when  you  read,  like  an  icy 
hand,  hard  as  steel,  in  a  glove  of  velvet.  It 's  always 
between  the  lines,  reaching  out,  and  nothing  you  can 
do  will  stay  it.  I  thought  at  first  I  imagined  it,  but 
the  oftener  I  have  read,  the  more  I  have  felt  its  clutch. 
The  letters  of  themselves  are  nothing.  What  do  you 
suppose  I  care  for  veiled  threats  of  that  sort?  I  'm 

[22] 


i 

•I 

— 

OS 

•5 

be 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

big  enough  to  take  care  of  myself,  Clyde.  I  Ve  met 
peril  in  about  every  possible  guise,  in  every  part  of 
the  world,  and  I  Ve  never  really  known  fear.  But 
this  —  this  is  different.  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  I 
don't  know  why.  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  make  out 
what  it  is  I  'm  afraid  of." 

He  had  gone  very  pale,  and  his  strong,  capable 
hands,  which  toyed  with  the  two  letters,  quivered  and 
twitched  in  excess  of  nervous  tension. 

Then,  with  a  finger  pointing  to  the  ink-stain  at  the 
bottom  of  one  of  the  sheets,  he  asked : 

"What  does  that  look  like  to  you?" 

I  took  the  letter  from  him,  and  scrutinizing  the  rude 
figure  with  concentrated  attention  for  a  moment,  ven- 
tured the  suggestion  that  it  somewhat  resembled  a 
boat. 

"A  one-masted  vessel,  square-rigged,"  he  added,  in 
elucidation. 

"Exactly." 

"Now  turn  it  upside  down." 

I  did  so. 

"Now  what  do  you  see?" 

"The  head  of  a  man  wearing  a  helmet."  The  re- 
semblance was  very  marked. 

"A  straw  helmet,  apparently,"  he  amplified,  "such 
as  is  worn  in  the  Orient.  And  yet  the  profile  is  not 

[28] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

that  of  an  Oriental.  Now,  look  at  your  vessel  again.*' 
And  once  more  I  reversed  the  sheet  of  paper. 

"Can  it  be  a  Chinese  junk?"  I  asked. 

"It  might  be  a  sailing  proa  or  banco,"  he  returned, 
"such  as  they  use  in  the  South  Pacific.  But  what- 
ever it  is,  I  can't  understand  what  it  has  to  do  with 
me  or  I  with  it." 

I  was  still  studying  the  black  daub,  when  he  said: 

"But  you  have  n't  told  me  about  the  handwriting. 
What  can  you  read  of  the  character  of  the  writer?" 

"Nothing,"  I  answered,  promptly.  "It  is  curious 
penmanship,  as  you  say  —  heavy  and  regular  and  up- 
right, with  some  strangely  formed  letters:  especially 
the  /'s  and  the  p's',  but  it  tells  me  nothing." 

"But  I  thought—"  he  began. 

"That  I  boasted?  So  I  did.  When  one  writes  as 
one  habitually  writes  it  is  very  easy.  These  letters, 
however,  are  not  in  the  writer's  ordinary  hand.  The 
writing  is  as  artificial  as  though  you,  for  example, 
had  printed  a  note  in  Roman  characters.  Were  they 
addressed  in  the  same  hand?" 

"Precisely." 

"What  was  the  post-mark?" 

"They  bore  no  post-mark.  That  is  another  strange 
circumstance.  Yet  they  were  with  my  mail.  How 
they  came  there  I  have  been  unable  to  ascertain.  The 

[24] 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

people  at  the  post  office  naturally  deny  that  they 
delivered  anything  unstamped,  as  these  were;  and 
Barrie,  the  lad  who  fetches  the  letters,  has  no  recol- 
lection of  these.  Nor  has  Checkabeedy,  who  sorts  the 
mail  here  at  the  house.  But  each  of  them  lay  beside 
my  plate  at  breakfast  —  the  first  on  the  fourteenth  of 
August;  the  second,  this  morning,  the  fourteenth  of 
September." 

"And  they  were  not  delivered  by  messenger?" 

"So  far  as  I  can  learn,  no." 

"It  is  very  odd,"  I  commented,  with  feeble  banality. 

I  took  the  letters  from  his  hands  once  more,  and 
held  them  in  turn  between  my  vision  and  the  candle- 
light, hoping,  perchance,  to  discover  a  water-mark  in 
the  paper.  But  I  was  not  rewarded. 

"You  examined  the  envelopes  carefully,  I  pre- 
sume?" was  my  query  as  I  returned  the  sheets  to  the 
table. 

"More  than  carefully,"  he  answered.  "But  you 
shall  see  them,  if  you  like.  I  found  no  trace  of  any 
identifying  mark." 

Thus  far  he  had  made  no  further  mention  of  the 
"puzzling  happening"  which  followed  the  receipt  of 
the  first  letter,  and  in  the  interest  provoked  by  the 
letters  themselves  I  had  foreborne  to  question  him; 
but  now  as  the  words  "seventh  day  hence"  fell  again 

[25] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

under  my  eye,  standing  out,  as  it  were,  from  the  rest 
of  the  script  which  lay  upturned  on  the  table  before 
me,  I  was  conscious  of  a  stimulated  concern,  and  so 
made  inquiry. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me,  first,  whether  anything 
really  did  occur  on  the  seventh  day." 

"I  was  coming  to  that,"  he  replied;  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  prompt  though  his  response  was,  there  was 
a  shade  of  reluctance  in  his  manner;  for  he  relapsed 
into  silence  for  what  must  have  been  the  better  part 
of  a  minute,  and  with  eyes  lowered  sat  seemingly 
lost  in  thought. 

Then  he  rose,  abruptly,  and  saying,  "Suppose  we  go 
into  my  study,  Clyde,"  led  the  way  from  the  dining 
room,  across  the  great,  imposing,  groined  and  fretted 
hall  to  that  comparatively  small  mahogany  and  green 
symphony  wherein  he  was  wont  to  spend  most  of  his 
indoor  hours.  It  was  always  a  rather  gloomy  room 
at  night,  with  its  high  dark  ceiling,  its  heavy  and 
voluminous  olive  tapestry  hangings,  wholly  out  of 
keeping,  it  seemed  to  me,  with  the  season, —  and  its 
shaded  lights  confined  to  the  vicinity  of  the  massive, 
polished,  and  gilt-ornamented  writing  table  of  the 
period  of  the  First  Empire.  And  it  impressed  me 
now,  in  conjunction  with  Cameron's  promised  revela- 
tion, as  more  than  ever  grim  and  awesome. 

[26] 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

I  remember  helping  myself  to  a  cigar  from  the 
humidor  which  stood  on  the  antique  cabinet  in  the 
corner  near  the  door.  I  was  in  the  act  of  lighting  it 
when  Cameron  spoke. 

"I  want  you  to  sit  in  this  chair,"  he  said,  indicating 
one  of  sumptuous  leather  upholstery  which  stood  be- 
side the  writing  table,  facing  the  low,  long  book- 
cases lining  the  opposite  wall. 

I  did  as  he  bade  me,  while  he  remained  standing. 

"Do  you,  by  any  chance,"  he  asked,  "remember  a 
portrait  which  hung  above  the  book-shelves  ?" 

I  remembered  it  very  well.  It  was  a  painting  of 
himself,  done  some  years  back.  But  now  my  gaze 
sought  it  in  vain. 

"Certainly,"  I  answered.  "It  hung  there,"  point- 
ing. 

"Quite  right.  Now  I  want  you  to  observe  the 
shelf -top.  You  see  how  crowded  it  is." 

It  was  indeed  crowded.  Bronze  busts  and  statu- 
ettes; yachting  and  golf  trophies  in  silver;  framed 
photographs;  a  score  of  odds  and  ends,  souvenirs 
gathered  the  world  over.  There  was  scarcely  an  inch 
of  space  unoccupied.  I  had  frequently  observed  this 
plethora  of  ornament  and  resented  it.  It  gave  to 
that  part  of  the  room  the  semblance  of  a  curiosity 
shop.  When  I  had  nodded  my  assent,  he  went  on : 

[27] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"On  the  afternoon  of  Friday,  August  twenty-first, 
seven  days  after  the  receipt  of  that  first  letter,  I  was 
sitting  where  you  are  sitting  now.  I  was  reading, 
and  deeply  interested.  I  had  put  the  letter,  as  I  told 
you,  entirely  out  of  my  mind.  I  had  forgotten  it,  ab- 
solutely. That  seventh-day  business  I  had  regarded 
—  if  I  regarded  it  at  all  —  as  idle  vaporing.  That 
this  was  the  afternoon  of  the  seventh  day  did  not  occur 
to  me  until  afterwards.  I  recall  that  I  paused  in 
reading  to  ponder  a  paragraph  that  was  not  quite 
clear  to  me,  and  that  while  in  contemplation  I  fixed 
my  eyes  upon  that  portrait.  I  remember  that,  be- 
cause it  struck  me,  then,  that  the  flesh  tints  of  the 
face  had  grown  muddy  and  that  the  thing  would  be 
better  for  a  cleaning.  I  recall,  too,  that  at  that  mo- 
ment, the  little  clock,  yonder,  struck  three.  I  re- 
sumed my  reading;  but  presently,  another  statement 
demanding  cogitation,  I  lowered  my  book,  and  once 
more  my  eyes  rested  on  the  portrait.  But  not  on  the 
muddy  flesh  tints,  because  — "  he  paused  and  leaned 
forward,  towards  me,  speaking  with  impressive  em- 
phasis. "Because,"  he  repeated,  "there  were  no  flesh 
tints  there.  Because  there  was  no  head  nor  face 
there!" 

I  sat  up  suddenly,  open-mouthed,  speechless. 
Only  my  wide  eyes  made  question. 

[28] 


THE    VANISHING    PORTRAIT 

"Cut  from  the  canvas,"  he  went  on,  in  lowered 
voice,  "clean  and  sharp  from  crown  to  collar.  And 
the  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  twelve  minutes  past 
three." 


O 


hsd 
.is  ii 

\BOQ 


[29] 


CHAPTER  II 

RIFLE  SHOTS  ECHO  IN  THE  WOODS 

/^\F  conveying  even  a  tithe  of  the  horror  I  experi- 
enced at  Cameron's  disclosure  I  am  nigh  hope- 
less. The  more  we  discussed  the  occurrence  the  less 
susceptible  it  seemed  of  explanation.  And  what  is 
so  terrifying  as  the  inexplicable,  or  so  dreadful  as 
the  intangible?  Here,  apparently,  was  an  enemy  of 
calm  and  cunning  malignity,  who  chose  to  manifest 
his  power  in  a  manner  almost  ludicrously  puerile  — 
save  as  it  pointed  with  significant  finger  to  some  dire 
and  inevitable  sequel  —  yet  with  such  crafty  secrecy 
as  completely  to  mystify  and  dismay. 

Cameron  showed  me  the  mutilated  portrait.  He 
had  taken  it  down  almost  immediately,  and  had  hidden 
it  away  in  a  closet  of  the  hall  behind  an  array  of  rain- 
coats. The  cutting  had  been  done,  evidently,  with  an 
exceedingly  keen  blade,  and  very  dexterously  done. 
But  that  it  should  have  been  accomplished  in  twelve 
minutes,  while  Cameron  sat  in  the  room,  not  fifteen 
feet  distant,  was  beyond  our  comprehension.  Ab- 
sorption in  his  book  was  the  nearest  we  came  to  a 

[so] 


RIFLE    SHOTS    IN    THE    WOODS 

solution,  and  that  was  scarcely  tenable.  For  there  was 
the  crowded  top  of  the  book-shelves.  To  cut  the 
canvas,  the  vandal  must  either  have  stood  upon  that 
or  have  reared  a  ladder.  There  was  not  room  for  the 
foot  of  a  child  on  the  shelf -top;  and  as  for  the  ladder, 
it  was  unthinkable.  How  could  a  ladder  have  been 
carried  in  and  out  without  Cameron  being  conscious 
of  it?  From  every  possible  angle  we  viewed  the  in- 
cident, making  every  conceivable  concession,  and  no 
half-way  plausible  answer  to  the  riddle  presented  it- 
self. And  though  our  common-sense  told  us  that  the 
time  of  miracles  was  long  past,  that  no  Gyges's  ring 
nor  Alberich's  cloak  survived  to  this  day  to  make 
invisible  their  wearers,  there  persisted,  nevertheless,  a 
chill,  uncanny  sense  of  the  supernatural,  quite  evident 
to  me  in  Cameron's  hushed  voice  and  furtive  manner, 
and  in  my  own  unwonted  nervous  disquietude. 

We  sat  very  late.  I  wished,  if  possible,  to  learn  if 
at  any  time  in  my  friend's  life  he  had  done  aught  to 
engender  an  enmity  to  which  these  strange  develop- 
ments could  be  traced  —  whether,  for  instance,  in  the 
hot  blood  of  his  youth  in  some  far  land  he  had  pro- 
voked the  vengeance  of  one  whose  humor  it  is  never 
to  forget.  As  we  talked  I  came  to  know  Cameron 
better  than  I  had  ever  known  him  before.  He  bared 
to  me  much  of  his  early  career;  he  gave  me  a  clearer 

[31] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

view  of  his  temperamental  qualities ;  and  yet  I  could 
not  but  feel  that  he  had  left  the  vital  point  untouched, 
that  beneath  his  seeming  frankness  there  lay  hidden, 
shielded,  some  one  episode,  perhaps,  which  might  let 
the  light  in  upon  our  darkness.  For  my  question  was 
evaded  rather  than  answered. 

Presently,  we  went  back  to  the  letters  and  dissected 
them,  coldly  and  critically,  sentence  by  sentence,  and 
while  the  weird  influence  which  they  had  exerted  upon 
me  at  the  first  reading  increased,  stimulated  possibly 
by  the  incident  of  the  portrait,  still  we  reached  a  cer- 
tain practical,  common-sense  view  as  to  their  origin; 
for  we  came  to  see  in  them  what  we  believed  to  be 
the  hand  of  a  religious  fanatic.  Certain  expressions, 
we  concluded,  were  quotations.  If  they  were  not 
Biblical,  they  were  certainly  of  sacred  genesis.  And 
the  discovery  was  not  reassuring.  It  lent,  indeed,  an 
added  prick  to  the  perturbation  we  already  experi- 
enced. 

Nor  did  the  absence  of  a  specified  date  for  the 
second  promised  demonstration  of  power  tend  to  re- 
lieve our  uneasiness.  In  this  silence  we  found  the 
acme  of  cunning  cruelty.  Any  day,  at  any  hour, 
some  other  mystifying,  soul-torturing  incident  was 
liable  to  occur. 

I  tried  to  argue  that  the  seventh  day  was  implied, 

[32] 


RIFLE    SHOTS    IN    THE    WOODS 

inasmuch  as  the  second  note  was  received  on  the  same 
day  of  the  month  as  the  first,  and  was  a  mere  con- 
tinuation of  the  original  threat.  But  my  contention 
lacked  the  intrinsic  strength  which  carries  conviction, 
and,  as  Cameron  put  it,  we  could  only  "watch  and 
wait" ;  for  the  communications  offered  no  alternative. 
They  made  no  demand  which  being  complied  with 
would  avert  penalty.  Only  implacable  and  inevitable 
retribution,  calm,  patient,  and  determined,  effused 
from  every  line. 

But,  in  spite  of  Cameron's  evident  anxiety  —  and 
in  using  that  term  I  am  very  mildly  stating  his  ob- 
vious condition  of  mind  —  he  sternly  refused  to  con- 
sult either  the  police  or  the  private  detectives. 

"You  may  not  know,"  he  explained,  "that  I  am 
largely  interested  in  a  certain  line  of  industrial  enter- 
prises, the  shares  of  which  are  listed  on  the  New  York 
Stock  Exchange.  Should  the  public  become  aware 
that  my  life  is  threatened,  very  serious  consequences 
might  ensue  in  the  market.  No,  Clyde,  whatever  is 
done,  must  be  done  by  ourselves,  and  by  friends  whom 
we  can  trust  absolutely.  I  can  take  no  risk  of  this 
horrid  thing  getting  into  the  newspapers.  Besides," 
he  added,  with  a  kindly,  considerative  smile,  "Evelyn 
must  be  kept  in  ignorance.  Not  for  worlds  would  I 
have  her  troubled  by  our  perplexing  enigma." 

3  [S3] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

My  suggestion  that  he  should  go  abroad  for  a  time, 
or  at  least  spend  a  few  weeks  at  Newport,  was  met 
with  similar  obstinate  refusal. 

"I  admit  that  I  have  been  somewhat  upset  by  this 
extraordinary  combination,"  was  the  way  he  expressed 
it,  "but  I  am  not  a  coward.  I  am  not  going  to  run. 
Even  if  I  were  inclined  to  do  so,  what  should  I  gain  ? 
If  a  man  be  not  safe  in  his  own  house,  where  in 
Heaven's  name  is  he  likely  to  find  safety?" 

Quite  naturally  I  was  led  by  this  expression  to  in- 
quire whether,  perchance,  he  mistrusted  any  of  the 
many  persons  who  were  employed  in  the  house  and 
about  the  estate.  But,  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  he 
was  almost  gravely  offended  by  the  mere  suggestion. 
Nevertheless  there  were  several  features  of  the  affair, 
chief  of  them  the  manner  in  which  the  letters  were 
received,  which  caused  me  to  dwell  with  some  mental 
persistence  on  this  as  the  most  profitable  ground  for 
speculation.  And  when  at  length,  in  the  morning's 
small  hours,  I  returned  to  my  home  and  to  my  bed, 
I  carried  the  thought  with  me. 

The  sowing  of  this  seed  in  the  subconscious  garden 
of  my  mind  brought  forth  fruit  after  its  kind.  I 
awoke  with  a  perfectly  clear  understanding  of  how 
that  which,  the  night  before,  had  seemed  so  impossible 

[34] 


RIFLE    SHOTS    IN    THE    WOODS 

of  accomplishment  was,  perhaps,  after  all,  merely  a 
harlequin  trick,  quite  simple  when  explained. 

With  the  new  day,  too,  and  the  sunlight,  and  the 
cheery  brightness  of  my  own  rooms,  there  came  a  lift- 
ing of  that  oppressive  atmosphere  of  the  esoteric 
which  at  Cameron's  had  set  my  nerves  out  of  plumb 
and  my  reason  on  the  bias.  Indeed  I  was  fully  con- 
vinced that  we  had  been  foolishly  constructing  an 
Alpine  chain  out  of  a  miserable  little  row  of  mole 
hills,  and  I  determined  to  lose  no  time  in  bringing 
Cameron,  whom  I  now  regarded  as  most  needlessly 
alarmed,  to  my  own  wholesome  way  of  thinking. 

Directly  after  breakfast,  therefore,  I  set  forth  on 
foot  for  my  neighbor's,  choosing  the  shore  road  as  the 
more  direct  of  the  two  routes. 

Personally,  my  taste  in  landscape  is  for  distant 
view  in  preference  to  near-at-hand  f oliage.  My  own 
house,  which  is  fashioned  in  semblance  of  a  Pompeiian 
villa,  its  cream-white  walls  punctuated  with  shutters 
of  a  somewhat  vivid  pea-green  and  crowned  by  gently 
sloping  roofs  of  the  same  bright  color,  gazes  out 
across  Stamford  Harbor  and  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Sound,  to  where  on  clear  days  the  pencilled  outline 
of  Eaton's  Neck  shows  purple  in  the  distance.  There 
are  no  towering,  umbrageous  trees  to  interrupt  the 

[35] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

outlook;  only  low,  carefully-trimmed  shrubs,  adorning 
a  series  of  marble  sculpture-dotted  terraces,  well  be- 
low the  line  of  vision.  But  the  Cameron  place,  re- 
flecting the  Townsbury  penchant  for  arboriculture,  is 
quite  the  reverse.  The  prospect  from  the  windows 
and  verandahs  of  the  fine  old  mansion  is  all  green 
vistas  and  leafy  perspectives,  with  only  a  glint  of 
sun-sparkled  waves,  chance-caught  between  gray 
boles  or  when  the  wind  spreads  a  momentary  opening 
in  the  foliage. 

My  way  to  Cameron's  led  through  a  veritable 
forest  of  such  luxuriant  leafage  that  the  path  more 
than  half  the  time  was  in  twilight,  while  to  right  and 
left  the  shadows  deepened  into  dark  in  the  cloistral  re- 
cesses of  the  woodland  heart.  The  silence  was  pro- 
found. No  voice  of  bird  nor  scurrying  foot  of 
squirrel  invaded  the  morning  hush  of  those  ramous 
depths.  My  own  footsteps  on  the  soft  turf  returned 
no  sound. 

A  half-mile  or  more  I  had  walked  in  this  mute 
greenwood  peace,  when  sharp  and  clear  there  echoed 
through  the  verdurous  aisles  the  crack  of  a  rifle,  and 
I  came  to  a  sudden,  involuntary  halt. 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  the  third  day 
of  the  open  season  for  rail  birds,  and  that  it  was  the 
report  of  a  shot-gun  I  had  heard,  fired  by  some  sports- 

[36] 


RIFLE    SHOTS    IN    THE    WOODS 

man,  off  on  the  shore,  there,  to  my  right.  And  so 
I  resumed  my  tramp,  with  ears  keen  for  a  repetition. 
Almost  immediately  I  was  rewarded,  and  then  I  knew 
that  it  was  no  rail  bird  gunner,  for  the  shot  was  un- 
mistakably a  rifle  shot,  and  it  was  fired  in  the  depth 
of  the  wood,  to  the  left  of  me. 

Three  times  more  I  heard  it,  in  fairly  rapid  suc- 
cession, and  sounding  always  from  about  the  same 
direction.  I  cannot  say  that  it  gave  me  any  uneasi- 
ness, but  it  perplexed  me  in  a  mild  way,  arousing  a 
passing  curiosity  as  to  its  object.  And  then,  I  came 
out  upon  the  well-kept,  gravelled  drive  which  circles 
the  close-cropped,  velvety  Cameron  lawn,  and  catch- 
ing sight  of  Cameron  himself,  in  riding  breeches  and 
puttees,  romping  with  one  of  his  picturesquely  grace- 
ful Russian  wolf-hounds,  promptly  forgot  all  about  it. 

He  came  across  the  sward  to  meet  me,  the  great, 
gaunt  white  hound  pressing  close  to  his  side,  and  I 
thought  I  saw  that  he,  too,  had  experienced  the  in- 
spiriting influence  of  the  morning. 

"I  have  found  an  answer,"  I  cried,  while  he  was 
still  fifty  yards  away,  "possibly  the  answer." 

He  raised  his  brows  in  question,  and  the  hound, 
with  open  jaws,  fondled  his  wrist. 

"I  had  a  horseback  ride  before  breakfast,"  he  told 
me,  as  he  shook  my  hand.  "Then  I  spent  an  hour  at 

[37] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

the  kennels.  We  Ve  a  fine  new  brood  of  collie  pup- 
pies. You  must  see  them." 

"I  want  to,"  I  returned. 

"What  do  you  say  to  tennis?"  he  suggested,  irrel- 
evantly. "Just  a  set.  It 's  a  fine  morning  for  ten- 
nis." 

"If  you  can  lend  me  a  pair  of  shoes,"  I  consented, 
glaring  down  at  my  boots. 

"A  dozen  pairs,"  he  smiled.  "Come  up  to  my 
dressing  room.  Louis  will  fit  you  out." 

I  was  scarcely  prepared  for  this  change  in  my 
friend's  mood,  and  far  from  happy  over  it.  He  was 
evidently  determined  to  ignore  the  subject  that  had 
so  engrossed  us  the  night  before,  hoping  to  find  sur- 
cease of  harassing  thought  in  a  restless  round  of 
activities.  The  condition  was  a  morbid  one  which  I 
believed  should  be  discouraged;  the  more  so  as  I  pos- 
sessed what  I  fancied  was  a  perfectly  practical  solu- 
tion of  that  which  hitherto  had  seemed  to  us  an 
inexplicable  phenomenon.  And  I  was  a  little  an- 
noyed, too,  that  my  good  tidings  should  be  thus  dis- 
regarded. 

When,  therefore,  we  had  entered  the  hall  and 
Cameron  was  leading  towards  the  broad,  ascending 
staircase,  I  paused. 

"Do  you  mind  giving  me  just  a  minute?" 

[38] 


RIFLE    SHOTS    IN    THE    WOODS 

He  stopped,  turned,  and  stood  in  questioning 
silence. 

"A  minute  in  my  study,"  I  added,  in  explana- 
tion. 

Reluctantly,  it  seemed  to  me,  he  crossed  to  the 
study  door,  and  throwing  it  open,  stood  aside  that  I 
might  precede  him. 

The  room  appeared  far  less  grim  and  gloomy  than 
when  I  had  last  entered  it.  Its  windows  faced  the 
south;  and  between  the  olive-green  tapestry  curtains 
the  sun  poured  in  a  flood,  lighting  up  the  far  corners, 
glinting  on  the  gilt  ornaments  of  the  writing  table, 
and  bathing  in  dazzling  splendor  the  burnished 
bronzes  on  the  crowded  top  of  the  book-shelves. 

"I  see  you  are  not  disposed  to  resume  our  discussion 
of  last  night,"  I  began,  when  Cameron,  having  closed 
the  door  behind  him,  halted  just  inside,  and  with 
hands  in  pockets,  awaited  my  opening.  "But  I  want 
to  show  you  that  we  have  been  in  very  much  the  same 
position  as  the  wondering  children  who  watch  the 
prestidigitateur.  We  have  imagined  something 
amazingly  like  a  miracle,  which,  in  point  of  fact,  is 
capable  of  a  very  simple,  commonplace  explanation." 

"You  mean  the  cutting  out  of  the  head  of  the  por- 
trait?" he  asked,  with  kindling  interest. 

"I  do." 

[89] 


"You  have  discovered  how  it  was  done,  before  my 
eyes,  so  to  speak,  and  yet?  — " 

"I  have  discovered  how  it  may  have  been  done,"  I 
interrupted. 

He  moved  his  head  just  perceptibly  from  side  to 
side  in  skeptical  gesture. 

"The  door  of  this  room  is  seldom  locked?"  I 
queried,  ignoring  the  indicated  skepticism. 

"Never  locked,"  he  answered. 

"It  would  be  quite  possible  for  any  one,  knowing 
that  you  were  absent,  to  spend  an  hour  or  so  here, 
uninterrupted  ?" 

"Any  one?"  he  questioned. 

"Any  one  who  had  gained  entrance  to  the  house," 
I  amplified. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  presume  so." 

"They  would  have  ample  time  to  clear  a  space  on 
the  book-shelves,  climb  up,  and  carefully  cut  out  the 
head,  or  any  part,  or  the  whole  of  a  portrait,  if  they 
were  so  inclined?" 

I  paused  for  his  answer,  but  he  only  smiled  with 
a  sort  of  incredulous  tolerance. 

"Would  they  not?"  I  insisted.  But  Cameron  was 
most  perverse  this  morning. 

"My  dear  Clyde,"  he  scoffed,  "of  what  use  is  all 
this?  The  portrait  was  cut,  not  while  I  was  absent, 

[40] 


RIFLE    SHOTS    IN    THE    WOODS 

but  while  I  was  present.  I  saw  it  complete  at  three 
o'clock;  at  twelve  minutes  past  three,  it  was  muti- 
lated." 

"My  contention  is,"  I  explained,  quite  patiently, 
"that  while  you  saw  it  complete  at  three  o'clock,  the 
cut  had  already  been  made,  but  the  cut  portion  had 
not  been  removed.  In  other  words,  the  cutting  hav- 
ing been  deftly  done  with  a  thin,  sharp  knife,  it  was 
perfectly  feasible  to  leave  the  portrait  apparently 
intact,  though  with  the  slightest  effort  the  incised 
portion  could  subsequently  be  released  —  with,  say,  a 
piece  of  cord,  glued  to  the  back  for  that  especial  pur- 
pose." 

Now  that  I  had  made  myself  clear,  Cameron  was 
quick  to  acknowledge  the  possibility  of  such  a  method. 

"And  the  cord,  you  mean,  led  down  behind  the 
book-shelves,  and  perhaps  through  a  window?"  he 
suggested. 

"Precisely.  And  was  pulled  by  some  one  on  the 
outside." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  thoughtfully.  "Such  an  explana- 
tion is  not  unreasonable.  The  thing,  really,  must 
have  been  done  in  some  such  way." 

"And  don't  you  see,"  I  hurried  on  with  my  advan- 
tage, "how  utterly  cheap  this  makes  the  whole  affair? 
There  's  nothing  at  all  impressive  in  that  performance 

[41] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

when  you  find  out  how  it  was  done.  If  the  next 
demonstration  is  no  better  than  such  claptrap,  you 
may  rest  assured  you  have  a  very  picayunish  sort  of 
mountebank  villain  to  deal  with.  So,  cheer  up,  my 
dear  man,  and  I  '11  show  you  a  few  tricks  at  tennis 
that  may  be  equally  eye-opening." 

Unquestionably  my  friend  appeared  relieved.  But 
I  came  to  fancy  later  that  the  appearance  was  feigned 
for  my  benefit.  Certainly  he  was  not  convinced,  and 
in  that  he  proved  himself  possessed  of  an  intuition,  a 
world  more  accurate  than  my  own. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  TARGET 

set  at  tennis  having  finished  with  victory 
perching  on  my  banners,  I  made  excuse  to  put 
off  the  inspection  of  the  collie  puppies  until  another 
time,  resumed  my  walking  boots  and,  with  a  parting 
if  futile  admonition  to  Cameron  to  "think  no  more 
about  it,"  started  on  my  homeward  way. 

My  route  lay  again  through  the  miniature  forest, 
for  the  day  had  waxed  uncomfortably  warm  with  the 
approach  of  noon,  and  there  was  scant  shade  on  the 
high-road  between  our  two  houses.  In  the  wood, 
however,  the  air  was  gratefully  cool,  and  I  strode  on 
at  a  good  pace,  breathing  deeply  and  with  enjoyment 
the  bosky  odors  which  greeted  me  afresh  at  every  step. 

The  dead  silence  which  I  had  remarked  earlier  was 
broken  now  by  the  hoarse  tooting  of  a  steamboat 
whistle,  somewhere  off  shore,  and  by  the  shrill  voices 
of  birds,  apparently  in  resentful  protest  at  this  raucous 
invasion  of  their  sylvan  quiet. 

I  had  succeeded  in  putting  aside,  for  the  moment 
at  least,  all  thought  of  Cameron,  his  anonymous  letters, 

[48] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

and  his  mutilated  portrait,  and  was  dwelling  on  my 
disappointment  at  not  having  caught  even  so  much 
as  a  glimpse  of  Evelyn  Grayson  during  my  morning 
visit  to  Cragholt.  It  is  true  that  I  had  gone  there 
with  a  single  purpose  in  mind  —  to  convey  to  Cam- 
eron what  I  believed  to  be  an  important  theory  —  but 
underlying  this,  I  realized  now,  was  more  than  a  hope, 
a  confidence  even,  that  I  should  see  Evelyn.  I  was 
tempted,  indeed,  to  a  regret  that  I  had  not  waited, 
visited  the  kennels,  and  accepted  Cameron's  invita- 
tion for  luncheon,  which  would  doubtless  have  in- 
sured me  a  few  words  at  least  with  my  Goddess  of 
Youth. 

While  on  the  verge  of  this  self-reproach  my  spirits 
suddenly  lifted,  for  the  steam  whistle  having  died 
away  in  the  distance  and  the  feathered  choristers  hav- 
ing relapsed  into  a  pleased  chirp  that  merely  accented 
the  stillness,  there  broke  all  at  once  on  the  mute  calm 
of  the  woodland  the  silver  sweetness  of  a  girl's  sing- 
ing. Clear  and  resonant  it  rang  through  the  forest 
aisles;  a  voice  I  knew  beyond  mistaking.  Evelyn 
Grayson  was  coming  towards  me  over  the  scented 
turf.  Still  hidden  by  a  bend  in  the  path,  the  melody 
alone  measured  for  me  her  approach.  It  was  a 
French  chanson  she  was  lilting,  a  lyric  of  Baudelaire's, 
of  which  we  were  both  fond. 

[44] 


THE    TARGET 

Sweet  music  sweeps  me  like  the  sea 

Toward  my  pale  star, 
Whether  the  clouds  be  there  or  all  the  air  be  free, 

I  sail  afar. 

And  then  she  came  around  the  turn.  At  first  she 
did  not  see  me,  for  her  eyes  were  lifted  with  her 
voice,  and  I  had  time  to  mark  the  fascinating  grace 
of  her  long,  free  stride,  before  she  became  conscious 
of  my  presence  and  checked  and  shortened  it.  She 
wore  a  frock  of  white  serge,  the  skirt's  edge  at  her 
ankles,  revealing  dainty,  snowy  buckskin  ties  and  just 
a  peep  of  white  silk  hose.  And  her  flower-like  face 
looked  out  through  a  frame  of  Leghorn  straw  and 
pink  roses,  tied  snugly  beneath  her  softly  rounded 
chin  with  the  filmiest  of  long,  floating  white  veils. 
You  can  imagine  the  picture  she  made,  there  in  this 
green  glade,  with  her  big  blue  eyes  alight  with  glad 
surprise,  and  the  warm  blood  suddenly  risen  in  her 
cheeks. 

"You  truant!"  I  cried,  in  jocular  reprimand. 
"Are  you  always  going  to  run  away  when  I  visit 
Cragholt?" 

She  pouted  prettily.  I  detest  a  woman  who  pouts, 
ordinarily.  There  is  usually  such  palpable  affecta- 
tion about  it.  But  Evelyn's  pouting  was  winsome  as 
an  infant's.  Besides  it  was  only  momentary.  Then 

[45] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

her  eyes  flashed  and  her  foot  was  planted  very  hard, 
for  such  a  tiny  thing,  on  the  green  grass  blades. 

"I  'm  not  a  truant,"  she  declared,  with  feigned  in- 
dignation, "and  I  never  thought  of  running  away. 
That 's  just  your  conceited  manly  imagination.  You 
fancy  that  everything  I  do  can  have  but  one  cause, 
and  that  is  yourself.  How,  pray,  was  I  to  know  you 
intended  paying  us  a  morning  call?" 

"Tut,  tut,"  I  caught  her  up.  "What  a  little  spit- 
fire we  have  here!  If  you  hadn't  deserted  me  so 
shamefully  last  evening,  I  shouldn't  have  minded 
this  morning,  so  much.  As  it  is,  it  seems  aeons  since 
I  saw  you." 

Now  she  smiled  until  her  dimples  nestled.  "That 
is  much  better,"  she  returned,  gayly,  "and  deserves  a 
reply,  just  as  my  action  of  last  evening  deserves  praise 
and  not  rebuke.  I  sacrificed  myself  and  my  pleasure 
for  one  I  love." 

"Not  for  me,  surely!" 

"Did  I  use  the  word  conceit,  a  moment  ago?  Are 
you  the  only  man  I  love?" 

"I  hope  so,"  I  answered,  impudently. 

"There  is  another,"  she  confessed,  in  mock  tragedy. 
"Behold  his  face!" 

I  had  not  noticed  that  she  held  a  little  roll  in  her 
hand,  for  my  eyes  had  been  ever  on  hers;  so,  when, 

[46] 


THE    TARGET 

abruptly,  she  spread  out  and  held  before  me  the  miss- 
ing head  from  Cameron's  portrait,  I  was  doubly 
unprepared.  I  know  I  was  startled.  She  said  after- 
wards that  I  went  very  white.  I  suppose  I  did;  for 
with  the  rush  of  realization  came  such  a  chain  of  sup- 
position as  to  drive  me  momentarily  dizzy.  For  a 
second  or  more  I  stood  dumb,  while  my  hand  went 
out  in  eager  reach  for  the  scrap  of  canvas,  which,  I 
had  observed,  instantaneously,  bore  four  perforations, 
all  of  a  size  —  the  size  of  a  rifle  bullet.  With  that 
discovery  had  recurred  the  shots  I  had  heard;  and 
following  this,  came  a  maze  of  conjecture,  going  back 
to  that  first  letter,  then  to  the  painting's  mutilation, 
and  on  through  devious  ways  to  the  morning's  target 
practice;  and  always  with  one  or  another  of  Cam- 
eron's trusted  servants  as  the  chief  actor. 

When  I  recovered  my  composure  I  found  Evelyn 
backing  wilfully  away  from  my  covetous  hand. 

"It  is  the  picture  of  the  man  I  love,"  she  was  say- 
ing, teasingly.  "A  very,  very  good  man." 

"But  where  did  you  get  it?"  I  asked,  seriously. 
"Do  you  know  where  it  came  from?" 

Suddenly  she  was  as  grave  as  I  could  wish. 

"I  found  it  nailed  to  a  tree,"  she  answered. 
"Was  n't  it  odd?  How  do  you  suppose  it  came  there? 
It  looks  like  the  portrait  that  hung  in  Uncle  Robert's 

[47] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

study.  Do  you  suppose  he  grew  to  dislike  it,  and 
cut  it  up  and  threw  it  away?" 

Now  I  found  myself  in  some  little  embarrassment. 
If  I  was  to  obey  Cameron's  injunction  I  could  not 
tell  Evelyn  the  truth.  Yet  I  was  in  no  position  to 
make  light  of  her  find.  On  the  other  hand  I  must 
learn  from  her  just  where  she  had  come  upon  it,  and 
so  trace,  if  possible,  the  person  who  had  fired  the  shots 
which  riddled  it. 

"My  dear  girl,"  I  said,  adopting  a  tone  of  cajolery, 
"we  have  here,  I  think,  a  matter  in  which  we  both 
can  be  of  service, —  very  valuable  service,  indeed,  to 
that  beloved  uncle  and  guardian  of  yours.  But,  you 
must  trust  me,  absolutely,  and,  for  the  present  at 
least,  you  must  give  to  him  no  hint  of  what  we  have 
in  hand.  Do  you  understand?" 

She  laughed  in  that  merry  rippling  fashion  which 
I  had  found  not  the  least  of  her  charms. 

"Do  I  understand?"  she  repeated,  laying  a  hand 
on  my  arm  in  emphasis  of  her  amused  tolerance. 
"Do  I  understand?  Of  course  I  don't,  and  I  shan't, 
until  you  have  answered  at  least  a  half-dozen  whys 
and  whats." 

"But  you  must  trust  me,"  I  insisted,  "and  as  pri- 
mary evidence  of  that  trust  you  will  proceed  at  once 
to  hand  over  to  me,  for  examination,  that  somewhat 

[48] 


THE    TARGET 

damaged  piece  of  portraiture  which  you  are  holding 
behind  you." 

Very  wide  her  eyes  opened  in  an  innocent,  almost 
infantile  stare,  as  she  asked : 

"Do  you  really  mean  it,  Philip?" 

"Really,"  I  answered,  gravely.  "I  'd  like  to  tell 
you  all  about  it,  right  here  and  now,  but  that  might 
spoil  everything,  so  you  must  show  what  a  strong 
womanly  woman  you  are,  by  keeping  silence  and 
waiting." 

In  token  of  compliance  she  gave  me  the  oval  piece 
of  canvas. 

"I  wonder  who  punched  the  holes  in  it!"  she  re- 
marked, ruefully.  "Whoever  it  was,  they  were 
shockingly  disrespectful." 

I  tried  to  fancy  what  she  would  have  said  had  she 
known  they  were  bullet  holes.  Evidently  that  possi- 
bility had  not  occurred  to  her  and  I  was  glad  that  it 
had  not. 

"There  are  two  ways  of  looking  at  it,"  I  replied, 
my  eyes  fixed  on  the  canvas  and  its  perforations. 
"At  first  glance  it  does  seem  spiteful;  but  then  there 
is  a  chance  that  it  is  not  iconoclasm,  after  all.  It  may 
be,  you  know,  just  the  reverse.  I  have  not  infre- 
quently seen  portraits  that  were  so  unjust  to  the 
originals  that  they  fairly  cried  out  for  destruction." 
4  [49] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"But  this  is  not  one  like  that,"  she  retorted.  "This 
seems  to  me  a  very  good  portrait.  I  am  sure  Uncle 
Robert  must  have  looked  exactly  like  it,  ten  years 
ago." 

"Alas,  we  do  not  all  see  with  the  same  eyes,"  I 
assured  her  smiling.  "The  destroyer  may  have  looked 
on  it  as  a  caricature,  not  having  your  cultured  taste 
in  art."  I  held  it  off  at  arm's  length,  and  after  re- 
garding it  critically  for  a  moment  between  half-closed 
lids,  I  continued,  "Do  you  think  you  could  point  out 
the  identical  tree  to  which  it  was  nailed?" 

"I  could  try,"  was  her  answer. 

"Is  it  far?" 

"Not  very.  A  mile,  from  here,  possibly.  Over  the 
ridge." 

"Near  anything  in  particular?" 

"Near  the  trail  which  leads  up  from  the  trout 
stream  to  the  entrance  drive  not  far  from  the  Lodge." 

"When  will  you  take  me  there?"  I  asked. 

For  just  an  instant  she  hesitated. 

"We  might  go  now,"  she  replied,  "if  it  weren't 
that  I  am  expecting  Celia  Ainslee  for  luncheon. 
Suppose  we  say  five  o'clock.  You  can  meet  me  at 
the  Lodge.  It 's  a  short  walk  from  there." 

"Fine!"  I  approved,  thrusting  the  portrait  head 
beneath  my  arm  and  taking  possession  of  both  her 

[50] 


THE    TARGET 

white-gloved  hands.  Slender  and  shapely  hands,  yet 
wonderfully  capable. 

"Good-bye!"  she  cried,  laughing.  "Take  care  of 
my  uncle  1"  with  a  glance  towards  her  punctured  find. 

"Good-bye!"  I  returned,  releasing  her.  "Your 
uncle  shall  have  my  most  faithful  concern." 

The  real  significance  of  the  words  she,  of  course, 
did  not  comprehend.  But  as  I  stood  watching  her 
until  a  turn  in  the  path  enfolded  her  from  my  sight, 
their  echo,  ringing  in  my  ears,  impressed  me  with  their 
pregnancy.  Her  uncle  was  evidently  the  focal  point 
of  a  crafty  and  vengeful  conspiracy,  the  seriousness 
of  which  I  had  been  foolishly  endeavoring  to  mini- 
mize; and  as  such  he  was  in  need,  not  only  of  my 
concern,  but  of  all  the  loyal,  energetic,  and  efficient 
aid  of  which  I  was  capable. 


[51] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   CHINESE   SERVANT 

T^OUR  o'clock  found  me  rapping  at  the  door  of 
Cragholt  Lodge.  Considering  that  it  was  built 
thirty-five  years  ago  by  one  of  the  Townsbury  family 
who  probably  read  English  novels  but  had  never  been 
nearer  to  England  than  Coney  Island,  it  possessed  a 
surprising  picturesqueness ;  due  in  large  part  to  its 
covering  of  dark  English  ivy. 

I  had  anticipated  my  appointment  with  Evelyn  by 
a  full  hour ;  for  I  wished  to  question  old  Romney,  the 
lodge  keeper;  and  the  questions  were  not  for  milady's 
ear. 

He  opened  to  me  promptly,  in  person,  this  odd, 
rugged  old  man,  with  his  seamed  brow  and  great 
shock  of  iron-gray  hair  and  beard.  He  was  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  but  on  seeing  me  he  reached  for  his  coat, 
which  hung  on  a  peg  beside  the  door. 

"Never  mind  the  coat,  Romney,"  I  said,  "don't 
make  yourself  uncomfortable  on  my  account.  It 's 
a  warm  afternoon." 

"It  is  warmish,  sir,"  he  assented;  but  despite  my 

[52] 


THE     CHINESE     SERVANT 

protest  he  was  thrusting  his  arms  into  the  coat  sleeves. 
"It 's  been  an  uncommon  hot  September.  Won't  you 
step  inside,  sir?" 

He  knew  his  place  too  well  to  indicate  any  surprise 
at  my  visit ;  yet  I  felt  he  must  be  curious  over  an  event 
so  unusual. 

"I  have  an  inquiry  or  two  to  make,  Romney,"  I 
told  him,  as,  accepting  his  suggestion,  I  stepped  into 
his  cosy,  old-fashioned  sitting  room.  "I  heard  some 
shooting  over  this  way  this  morning,  and  I  've  been 
wondering  whether  the  game  laws  were  n't  being 
broken." 

He  placed  a  cushioned  rocking-chair  for  me,  and  I 
sat  down. 

"Now  did  you  hear  that,  too,  Mr.  Clyde?"  he  asked, 
brightening,  as  he  leaned  against  the  low  sill  of  one 
of  the  daintily  curtained  windows.  "  'Twas  about 
ten  o'clock,  sir;  a  little  after,  maybe.  I  was  doin'  a 
bit  of  trimmin'  on  the  hedge  outside,  sir,  when  them 
same  shots  set  me  a-thinkin'  that  very  thing.  An' 
right  away,  sir,  I  says  to  myself,  says  I,  'It 's  that 
Chink  what  just  went  up  to  the  house  to  borrow  a 
rifle.' " 

"That  Chink?"  I  repeated,  puzzled. 

"Yes,  sir.  Yellow  Chinee  boy,  sir.  He  works  for 
Mr.  Murphy,  the  artist,  what  has  the  bungalow,  down 

[53] 


THE    SABLE    LORCHA 

on  the  shore  near  Cos  Cob.  About  half  an  hour  be- 
fore that  he  comes  by  here  on  his  way  up  to  the  house. 
'What's  wantin'?'  I  asks.  'Mistle  Mulfy,'  he  says, 
'wantee  hollow  lifle,  shootee  weasel,  stealee  chickee.' 
'All  right,'  I  tells  him,  and  away  he  goes.  So,  you 
see,  sir,  when  I  hears  the  shots  I  thinks  right  away 
that  Mr.  Murphy's  Chink  is  tryin'  his  'hollowed  lifle' 
on  some  of  Mr.  Cameron's  pheasants,  maybe.  But 
fifteen  minutes  later,  along  comes  John  again,  with 
an  innocent  grin  on  his  face,  the  rifle  over  his  shoulder, 
and  his  hands  empty  as  air.  Well,  to  be  sure,  I  stops 
him,  sir.  'You  been  shootin'  in  the  woods?'  I  asks. 
'No  shootee,'  he  grins  back.  'Me  no  shootee.'  Then, 
sir,  I  swears  at  him,  good  and  hearty,  and  calls  him 
what  he  is.  But  all  he  can  say  is,  'No  lie;  me  no 
shootee/  Then  I  asks  him  if  he  did  n't  hear  a  gun 
go  off.  'Gun?'  he  says,  as  if  he  didn't  know  what 
gun  meant.  'Lifle,'  I  explains.  'Yes,  yes,'  says  he, 
'me  hear  lifle  shootee.  Not  my  lifle.'  'Whose  lifle?' 
I  asks  him.  'Man  with  lifle,  up  load,'  he  says,  point- 
ing back.  An'  that  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  him, 
sir." 

I  should  have  been  amused,  I  suppose,  by  old  Rom- 
ney's  recital.  It  was  certainly  very  graphic,  and  his 
imitation  of  the  Chinaman  was  histrionically  artistic 
—  I  fear  the  stage  missed  a  comedian  of  merit  when 

[54] 


THE     CHINESE     SERVANT 

Romney  took  to  lodge-keeping, —  but  at  the  first 
mention  of  the  Oriental,  I  had  pricked  my  ears,  and 
throughout  the  narration  my  mind  was  busy  with 
those  strangely  worded  letters  of  Cameron's  and  those 
still  stranger  blots  which  looked  one  way  like  a  Chi- 
nese junk  and  the  other  way  like  a  coolie  in  a  straw 
helmet.  The  possibility  of  a  connection,  especially  in 
view  of  the  rifle  and  the  perforated  painting,  seemed 
to  me  the  reverse  of  remote.  And  yet  I  could  hardly 
reconcile  the  notion  of  this  apparently  ignorant  Mon- 
golian being  in  any  wise  interested  in  bringing  dis- 
aster upon  a  person  so  far  removed  from  him  in  every 
way  as  was  Cameron ;  much  less  in  evolving  or  taking 
part  in  such  a  crafty  plot  as  everything  we  had  thus 
far  learned  of  it  indicated  this  to  be. 

My  questioning  of  Romney  shed  very  little  new 
light  on  the  subject.  He  had  seen  the  Chinaman 
pass  the  Lodge  on  several  occasions;  he  had  rarely 
entered  the  grounds,  however.  I  tried  to  ascertain 
what  his  "rarely"  meant,  and  finally  got  him  to  say 
that  in  the  past  six  months,  "John,"  as  he  called  him, 
had  visited  Cragholt,  on  one  pretext  or  another,  pos- 
sibly three  or  four  times.  But  Romney's  memory  for 
dates  was  exceedingly  feeble.  He  could  not  recollect 
whether  one  of  those  times  was  on  or  about  the 
twenty-first  of  August.  He  was  equally  at  a  loss 

[55] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

concerning  the  fourteenth  of  August  and  the  four- 
teenth of  September. 

"What  do  you  know  of  this  artist,  Murphy,  who 
employs  John?"  I  asked. 

"Not  much,  sir,"  was  his  answer.  "They  do  say  as 
he  is  rather  eccentric,  sir.  He  and  the  Chink  lives 
alone  there  in  the  bungalow,  summer  and  winter. 
He  's  a  big  red-headed  and  bearded  fellow,  sir.  I 
did  hear  a  story  as  to  him  gettin'  into  a  fight  up  at 
Garrison's  Hotel  in  Greenwich  village,  and  nearly 
killin'  three  young  watermen  near  as  big  as  himself." 

"Has  he  lived  here  long?" 

"Goin'  on  two  years,  now,  sir." 

"He  paints  and  sells  pictures,  I  suppose?" 

"Maybe,  sir.  I  never  sees  any,  though.  But  they 
calls  him  an  artist,  sir." 

I  determined  to  visit  Murphy  on  the  pretext  of 
purchasing  some  of  his  work,  and  in  this  manner 
learn,  if  possible,  something  more  of  his  Celestial 
servitor. 

"Of  course  you  did  n't  see  any  one  else  with  a  rifle, 
to-day?"  I  asked,  in  conclusion.  "The  'man  with 
lifle  up  load'  didn't  materialize?" 

"No,  sir.  Not  another  soul,  sir.  I  asked  some  of 
the  boys  —  them  as  has  charge  of  the  deer  in  the  pre- 
serve, over  the  way  the  shootin'  sounded.  But  they 

[56] 


THE     CHINESE     SERVANT 

had  n't  seen  no  one,  either,  sir.  Though  they  did  hear 
the  shots." 

I  thanked  Romney  for  his  interest  —  he  knew  I 
was  one  of  the  State  game  wardens  —  and  admon- 
ished him  to  keep  his  own  counsel  as  to  my  visit,  leav- 
ing the  impression  with  him  that  I  wished  to  round 
up  the  culprit,  and  feared  if  my  activity  in  the  matter 
were  scented  my  prey  would  be  put  on  his  guard  and 
thus  escape  me. 

It  still  lacked  twenty  minutes  of  the  hour  of  my 
appointment  with  Evelyn  when  I  issued  from  the 
Lodge,  and  to  occupy  the  time  I  entered  the  wide 
gateway  between  the  great  stone  pillars  with  their 
heraldic  shields,  and  sauntered  leisurely  along  the 
smooth  macadam  drive,  bordered  by  sentinel  elms. 

My  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  new  line  of  con- 
jecture which  Romney  had  unconsciously  opened  up 
for  me.  I  wondered  whether  by  any  possibility  this 
eccentric  painter,  Murphy,  could  be  personally  in- 
volved. Was  Cameron  acquainted  with  him?  Had 
they  ever  quarrelled?  From  what  Romney  had  told 
me  of  the  affair  at  Garrison's,  the  artist  was  evidently 
of  a  bellicose  disposition.  He  had  come  here  two 
years  ago.  Cameron  had  owned  Cragholt  less  than  a 
year.  Perhaps  at  the  time  he  was  preparing  the  man- 
sion for  occupancy  he  had  offended  the  too  sensitive 

[57] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

Murphy,  who  —  I  was  letting  my  imagination  run 
free  —  may  have  wished  to  take  a  hand  at  the  new 
decoration.  It  would  probably  be  well  for  me  to  see 
Cameron  before  seeing  the  artist.  The  involutions 
of  my  hypothetical  train  led  me,  I  fear,  into  many 
monstrously  preposterous  conceits ;  yet,  as  subsequent 
events  proved,  the  cogitation  in  which  I  indulged  on 
that  afternoon  walk  was  not  wholly  idle.  Although 
the  working  out  was  along  lines  which  I  was  then  far 
from  foreseeing,  it  was  curious,  in  looking  back,  to 
observe  how  very  closely,  collaterally,  even  at  that 
stage,  I  came  to  the  truth. 

In  the  midst  of  my  revery,  the  rhythm  of  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  drive  awoke  me  to  time  and  place.  And 
as  I  raised  my  eyes,  I  saw,  still  some  distance  away, 
but  bearing  down  upon  me  at  a  swift  single-foot,  the 
sum  girlish  figure  of  Evelyn  Grayson,  in  white  waist 
and  gray  habit,  mounted  on  Prince  Charley,  a  buck- 
skin cayuse,  which  for  saddle  purposes  she  preferred 
to  all  the  thoroughbreds  in  the  Cameron  stables. 

"Am  I  late?"  she  cried,  reining  the  wiry  little  an- 
imal to  a  stand  beside  me.  "Celia  Ainslee  just  left. 
She  was  expecting  the  Lentilhons  to  stop  for  her  in 
their  motor  boat,  but  they  broke  down  and  were  de- 
layed, and  instead  of  coming  at  three  o'clock,  it  was 
half-past  four  before  they  landed." 

[58] 


THE    CHINESE     SERVANT 

"I  fancy  you  are  just  on  the  minute,"  was  my  re- 
sponse, as  I  consulted  my  timepiece. 

"But  I  'm  still  a  mile  from  the  Lodge,"  she  argued. 

"And  all  the  nearer  to  the  trail,"  I  condoned.  "It 
must  be  somewhere  about  here,  is  n't  it?" 

"You  Ve  passed  it.  It 's  just  beyond  that  next 
bend."  And  she  pointed  over  my  shoulder. 

'  Why  did  n't  you  bring  a  groom  with  you  to  hold 
your  steed?"  I  asked,  smiling.  "You  don't  expect  to 
ride  Prince  Charley  into  the  forest  fastnesses,  do 
you?" 

"I  could,"  she  answered,  promptly.  "I  will,  if  you 
dare  me.  He  can  pick  his  way  like  a  cat.  But  it 
is  n't  necessary.  He  '11  stand  forever,  the  dear  thing, 
if  I  drop  the  bridle  rein  over  his  head." 

My  preference  was  to  have  her  on  foot  at  my  side, 
and  so  I  did  not  dare  her.  And  thus  it  chanced  that 
we  left  the  homely  little  animal  standing  with  droop- 
ing head  and  dangling  rein  on  the  shadowed  side  of 
the  driveway,  and  went  off  together  down  the  narrow, 
slow-descending  trail,  the  girl  in  the  lead. 

The  slanting  sunlight,  shooting  its  golden  arrows 
in  intermittent  volleys  through  the  tree  tops,  made 
target  of  her  hair,  as  we  passed,  scoring  brilliant 
flashes  of  burnished  bronze.  Her  hat,  a  broad- 
brimmed  sailor  of  coarse  black  straw,  was  but  a  poor 

[59] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

shield  for  that  shimmering,  tawny  coil  which  lay  low 
on  her  neck,  and  the  darting  rays  had  their  will  with 
it.  I  have  never  before  or  since  seen  hair  just  like 
Evelyn  Grayson's.  There  was  such  a  wealth  of  it, 
and  its  color  was  so  elusive.  Under  dim  lights  it 
seemed  a  prosaic  brown,  but  with  small  encourage- 
ment it  changed  to  a  light  fawn,  streaked  with  lus- 
trous topaz  strands ;  which  in  the  sun's  blaze  became  a 
dazzling  bronze  glory. 

"I  'm  pretty  sure  I  can  find  the  tree,"  she  asserted, 
as  she  swung  along  with  that  free,  lissome  stride 
which  I  loved.  "It  is  an  old,  dead  chestnut,  a  great 
giant  of  the  woods,  imposing  even  in  death;  and  it 
stands  only  a  half-dozen  yards  off  the  trail.  I  was 
looking  for  ferns,  or  I  never  in  the  world  should  have 
come  upon  it.  How  do  you  imagine  that  thing  ever 
got  away  off  here?  And  who  could  have  stuck  it  up 
on  that  dead  tree  trunk?" 

"That  is  precisely  what  I  should  like  to  find  out," 
was  my  reply.  "It  seems  very  mysterious  to  me. 
About  what  time  was  it,  when  you  discovered  it?" 

"Just  before  I  met  you." 

"Had  you  heard  any  shooting  in  the  woods,  before 
that?" 

"Shooting?"  she  queried,  apparently  surprised. 
"No.  Was  some  one  shooting?" 

[60] 


THE     CHINESE     SERVANT 

"I  understood  so.  Poaching,  I  imagine.  After 
some  of  Cameron's  fat  pheasants." 

"But  it 's  out  of  season,"  she  declared,  promptly. 

"That  makes  small  difference  with  a  poacher." 

Her  belief  in  her  ability  to  lead  me  to  the  tree  of 
which  we  were  in  quest  was  not  unfounded.  Twice 
she  paused  and  peered  in  between  the  gray  trunks 
which  grew  close  to  our  path;  once  she  took  a  step  off 
the  trail,  bending  in  keen-eyed  search  of  certain  fa- 
miliar landmarks.  These  were  the  only  interrup- 
tions to  what  was  otherwise  a  straight  march  to  the 
goal. 

When,  at  length,  we  reached  it,  she  identified  it  be- 
yond question,  and  I  had  little  difficulty  in  finding  the 
nail  from  which  the  piece  of  canvas  had  been  sus- 
pended. It  was  one  of  thin  wire,  with  very  small 
head,  driven  into  the  tree  at  a  distance  of  about  four 
and  a  half  feet  from  the  ground.  Just  beneath  it  I 
found  four  scattering  bullet  holes,  with  the  bullets 
too  deeply  embedded  to  be  extracted  with  so  poor  a 
tool  as  a  pocket  knife. 

From  this  it  was  evident  that  the  shots  had  been 
fired  at  comparatively  short  range,  as  indeed  they 
must  have  been,  seeing  that  the  trees  here  grew  so 
thickly  as  to  make  impossible  any  very  extended  line 
of  sight  upon  the  target. 

[61] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

Somewhat  to  Evelyn's  perplexity  I  began  making 
a  careful  inspection  of  the  ground,  not  only  about  the 
tree,  but  as  far  away  from  it  as  the  range  of  vision 
extended. 

"What  are  you  looking  for?"  she  demanded,  with 
a  show  of  concern,  and,  I  thought,  a  little  peevishly. 

"Footprints,"  I  answered,  laughing.  "Behold  the 
American  Sherlock!" 

"Have  you  found  any?" 

"Only  Cinderella's,"  and  that  put  her  in  good 
humor. 

But  I  found  something  of  much  more  importance 
than  the  indentations  of  shoe  soles.  I  found  it  very 
near  the  foot  of  the  tree,  just  below  where  the  paint- 
ing had  hung.  It  was  half  hidden  by  underbrush, 
and  at  first  I  mistook  it  for  a  stone.  Unobserved  by 
Evelyn,  I  slipped  it  into  my  pocket. 

"After  all,"  I  said  to  her,  "there  's  not  very  much  to 
be  learned  here,  is  there?" 


[62] 


CHAPTER  V 

FOUND   DEAD 

V/TY  motor  boat,  which  had  been  running  swiftly 
and  smoothly,  with  the  least  possible  clamor 
from  the  exhaust,  suddenly  missed  a  stroke  and  then, 
after  a  succession  of  choking  sobs,  ceased  all  effort, 
and  gradually  losing  headway,  drifted  idly  with  the 
tide. 

"Well  done,  Jerry,"  I  whispered  from  my  seat  in 
the  stern  to  the  capable  young  Irishman  who  was 
bending  over  the  motor  —  whispered,  because,  as  all 
the  world  knows,  the  water  is  a  sounding  board,  and 
I  had  no  intention  of  permitting  any  one  on  shore  to 
hear  my  words  of  approval. 

To  all  appearances  the  motor  had  broken  down, 
and  we  were  voyagers  in  distress. 

"The  tide  's  settin'  in,"  murmured  Jerry.  "Unless 
I  miss  me  guess,  it  '11  land  us  on  his  beach  inside  o* 
five  minutes,  sir." 

The  slender  scallop  of  a  new  moon  had  set  an  hour 
before,  but  the  night  was  luminously  clear,  and  the 
stars  blazed  with  an  almost  Southern  effulgence. 

[63] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

There  was  very  little  breeze  and  the  waters  of  the 
Mianus  were  scarcely  rippled.  The  air  was  chill, 
however,  though  now  and  then  there  came  to  us  a 
warm  breath  from  the  fields  which  all  day  long  had 
lain  baking  in  the  fervent  sunshine.  Along  the  shore 
to  our  left  we  caught  the  glint  of  lights  from  the  sum- 
mer cottages. 

To  Jerry  Rooney  every  inch  of  the  little  bay  and 
river  was  familiar.  Each  light  was  for  him  a  land- 
mark; and  so,  as  much  by  intuition  as  careful  calcu- 
lation, he  had  clogged  the  engine  at  a  point  whence, 
taking  tide  and  current  into  consideration,  we  might 
count  upon  drifting  to  the  water  end  of  Artist  Mur- 
phy's lawn. 

As  we  drew  nearer  and  he  stealthily  pointed  out  to 
me  the  location,  I  was  able  to  descry  a  little  grove  of 
trees,  black  in  the  starlight,  making  a  horizontal  bar- 
rier across  the  limited  enclosure,  and  hiding,  like  a 
rope  portiere,  the  bungalow  from  the  river.  Through 
this  no  lights  penetrated,  and  I  began  to  doubt  that, 
after  all  my  pains,  I  should  find  at  home  the  object 
of  their  taking. 

A  catboat,  with  sail  wrinkling  in  the  uncertain 
breeze,  glided  by  us,  almost  too  near  for  comfort,  and 
we  caught  a  sentence,  two  sentences,  in  fact,  from  the 
conversation  of  the  occupants : 

[64] 


FOUND    DEAD 

"Nobody  knows  him,"  in  clear,  ringing  masculine 
tones ;  and,  "He  's  handsome,  if  he  is  surly,"  in  a  wom- 
an's voice. 

I  wondered  if  they  were  speaking  of  Murphy.  My 
telephone  inquiry  of  Cameron  and  subsequent  ques- 
tioning of  the  men  about  my  place  had  proved  to  me 
that  both  observations  would  apply.  No  one  seemed 
to  know  very  much  of  this  brawny,  sandy  giant,  in 
spite  of  his  two  years'  residence  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

Now  the  shore's  shadow  was  engulfing  us,  and  the 
next  moment,  with  a  gentle  swish  of  waters,  we  felt 
the  boat's  bottom  grate  on  the  pebbly  beach.  There 
was  a  landing  a  short  distance  further  up, —  a  spin- 
dling wooden  pier, —  and  to  this  Jerry,  knee  deep  in 
the  black  water,  turned  the  boat  and  made  it  fast. 

The  prospect  which  confronted  us  as  we  walked 
shoreward  over  the  creaking  planks  was  about  as  hos- 
pitable as  the  grim  walls  of  a  prison.  The  tree  bar- 
rier rose  stark  and  forbidding  a  dozen  yards  away. 
Between  it  and  the  river  was  a  combination  of  peb- 
bles, sand,  high  grass,  and  ragged  overgrown  lawn, 
faintly  visible  in  the  starlight.  On  nearer  approach, 
however,  we  found  an  opening  in  the  curtain  of  trees, 
a  veritable  valley  of  shadow,  through  which  we  passed 
to  a  strip  of  neglected  sward  and  a  squat,  unpainted 
5  [65] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

weather-beaten  cottage  of  a  single  story,  with  vine- 
screened  verandah. 

And  in  what  seemed  to  us  the  very  centre  of  the 

w 

house  front,  there  shone  a  tiny  glowing  point  of  red 
fire.  We  had  not  come  altogether  in  vain.  By  all 
the  odds  of  chance,  it  was  a  safe  conclusion  that  Mur- 
phy, in  propria  persona,  was  behind  that  lighted  end 
of  a  cigar.  Then  we  saw  the  point  move,  describing 
a  half  circle,  and  simultaneously  a  voice  rang  out, — 
a  deep,  sonorous  voice,  but  of  churlish  intonation: 

"What  do  you  want  here?" 

I  suppose  he  expected  me  to  come  to  a  sudden  halt, 
but  I  was  then  only  a  few  steps  distant  from  the  ve- 
randah, and  as  I  answered  him,  I  covered  that  dis- 
tance. 

"My  motor  boat  ran  out  of  gasolene,"  I  said,  "and 
drifted  to  your  beach.  I  was  in  hopes  we  might  bor- 
row enough  to  get  us  home." 

I  saw  him  now,  dimly,  in  the  shadowed  recess.  He 
was  seated  facing  me,  a  creature  of  great  bulk,  with 
huge  head  and  ponderous  shoulders. 

"I  don't  keep  gasolene,"  was  his  gruff  response. 

"I  thought — "  I  began,  but  his  next  utterance 
drowned  my  words. 

"I  say  I  don't  keep  it,"  he  reiterated,  in  louder 
tones.  "Is  n't  that  plain?" 

[66] 


FOUND    DEAD 

"Oh,  quite.  You  have  neither  gasolene  nor  good 
manners." 

I  saw  him  rise,  a  massive  tower,  dwarfing  his  sur- 
roundings, and  take  a  step  forward  to  the  edge  of 
his  porch. 

"This  is  my  house  and  my  castle,"  he  flung  at  me, 
savagely,  "and  I  won't  stand  for  trespassers.  If  you 
two  don't  want  to  be  flung  off  my  property,  it  would 
be  advisable  for  you  to  make  haste  in  going." 

My  laugh  was  not  calculated  to  salve  his  ill  humor, 
yet  I  think  he  must  have  gathered  from  it  that  I  was 
not  to  be  terrorized  by  either  his  size  or  his  threats. 

"Your  name's  Murphy,  I  think,"  I  ventured, 
calmly,  not  moving  an  inch.  But  he  made  no  re- 
sponse. 

"Mine  is  Clyde,"  I  went  on;  "I  am  one  of  the  State 
game  wardens." 

"I  'm  not  interested  in  who  you  are,"  he  growled. 

"But  I  'm  interested  in  learning  what  your  China- 
man was  shooting  this  morning,  over  on  the  Cameron 
place," 

"Then  find  out,"  was  his  courteous  retort.  "I  'm 
sure  I  shan't  tell  you." 

"Maybe  the  Chinaman  will  be  more  obliging,"  I 
suggested,  and  turning  to  Jerry,  who  had  stood  in 
silence,  all  the  while,  a  few  steps  behind  me,  I  said: 

[67] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"Look  around  at  the  back,  my  lad,  and  if  you  can  find 
Mr.  Murphy's  man  fetch  him  here." 

But  before  I  had  quite  finished,  the  big  man  in  the 
shadow  of  the  verandah  was  storming : 

"He  '11  stop  just  where  he  is.  If  he  dares  to  come 
another  step  nearer  this  house,  I  '11  throw  the  pair  of 
you  over  the  hedge,  neck  and  crop.  Do  you  hear 
me?" 

"And  if  you  dare  to  interfere  with  an  officer  or  his 
deputy  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty,  the  authorities 
will  settle  with  you,"  was  my  calm  rejoinder.  "Trot 
ahead,  Jerry!  His  bark  's  worse  than  his  bite." 

Jerry,  quick  to  obey,  disappeared  on  the  instant 
around  the  corner  of  the  bungalow,  and  Murphy, 
after  a  pretended  dash  forward,  halted  on  the  lower 
porch  step. 

"See  here!"  he  demanded,  cumbrously.  "What's 
all  this,  anyhow?  You  come  here  after  gasolene,  os- 
tensibly, and  then  declare  you  're  game  wardens  after 
a  law-defying,  Chinese  poacher." 

At  last  I  saw  him  half-way  amenable  to  reason. 
Now  that  he  was  out  of  the  shadow,  I  saw  too,  more 
clearly,  what  manner  of  man  he  was.  His  head,  as  I 
had  already  discerned  it  through  the  gloom,  was  ab- 
normally large,  yet  not  out  of  proportion  with  his 
herculean  torso.  His  red  hair,  frowsy,  unkempt,  was 

[68] 


FOUND    DEAD 

of  such  abundance  that,  in  the  dark,  its  outline  had 
given  me  a  grotesquely  magnified  impression.  His 
red  beard,  too,  was  thick,  long,  and  untrimmed. 
What  little  of  his  face  showed,  was  sunburned  to  what, 
in  the  dim  light,  seemed  the  color  of  ripe  russet  ap- 
ples. His  eyes  were  nearly  indiscernible,  deep  set, 
under  bushy  red  brows. 

"If  you  had  shown  the  least  bit  of  humanity  to 
brother  men  in  distress,"  I  responded,  in  a  half  jocular 
vein,  "I  'd  probably  never  thought  of  this  being  your 
place,  and  you  being  you;  and  the  incident  of  the 
morning  might  have  been  forgotten." 

I  thought  I  heard  his  teeth  grit  together  in  his  ef- 
fort to  suppress  a  rising  rage.  I  certainly  saw  his 
hands  clench;  and  then,  with  an  assumption  of  indif- 
ference, he  took  a  final  puff  at  his  cigar  and  tossed  it, 
sparkling,  among  the  weeds  of  his  lawn. 

It  was  evident  to  me,  now,  that  in  spite  of  the  non- 
chalance he  affected,  my  reference  to  the  Chinaman's 
poaching,  and  his  presence  at  Cragholt,  had  aroused 
his  interest,  and  so  hoping  to  draw  him  out,  I  con- 
tinued : 

"Your  man  told  the  lodge-keeper  that  you  sent  him 
over  to  borrow  a  rifle." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  'd  believe  a  China- 
man, do  you?"  he  returned. 

[69] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"It  wasn't  for  me  to  believe  or  disbelieve.  The 
lodge-keeper  believed  him." 

"And  so  he  borrowed  a  rifle,  and  then  with  one  of 
Cameron's  own  instruments  of  destruction  proceeded 
to  destroy  Cameron's  game?  Is  that  it?  What  did 
he  shoot?  A  deer  or  one  of  those  starved-looking 
white  dogs  that  Cameron  has  following  him  about?" 

Apparently  Murphy  knew  much  more  of  my 
friend  than  my  friend  knew  of  Murphy. 

"Neither,  I  fancy.  In  fact,  I  'm  not  sure  just 
what  he  did  shoot  in  the  way  of  game.  But  he  seems 
to  have  indulged  in  a  bit  of  target  practice.  He 
found  a  piece  of  an  old  portrait,  tacked  it  to  a  tree, 
and  shot  holes  in  it.  Rather  silly,  eh?  Foolish  for 
him  to  chance  getting  into  trouble  for  child's  play  of 
that  sort." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  he  growled,  with  an  in- 
advertent dropping  of  his  mask.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking, now,  that  I  had  made  captive  his  attention. 

"I  saw  the  target,"  I  answered,  simply. 

"That 's  like  saying,  'I  caught  a  twelve-pound  bass. 
Here  's  the  hook  and  line  to  prove  it.' ' 

"I  have  a  scale  of  the  bass." 

"A  what?" 

"Something  your  Chinaman  dropped  beside  the 
tree." 

[70] 


FOUND    DEAD 

Phlegmatic  though  he  was,  something  very  like  a 
start  followed  upon  my  words.  Then,  as  if  to  cover 
the  movement,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  chuck- 
led ponderously. 

"His  visiting  card,  I  suppose." 

"Nearly  as  good,"  I  supplied.  "The  bowl  of  his 
opium  pipe." 

At  that  moment  Jerry  came  around  the  corner  of 
the  house  and  stopped  abruptly,  stupefied  by  surprise ; 
for  from  the  open  mouth  of  the  giant  there  issued  a 
roar  of  bass  laughter,  that  reverberated  in  weird  dis- 
cordance through  the  night  silences. 

"You  bally  idiot!"  he  cried,  his  guffaw  ended.  "I 
suppose  no  persons  except  Chinamen  smoke  opium, 
eh !  And  that  being  so,  no  Chinaman  but  my  China- 
man could  have  made  a  target  of  a  piece  of  an  old 
portrait  and  dropped  his  pipe  bowl  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree!  Go  on  with  you,  you  make  me  sick!"  And 
then,  seeing  Jerry,  who  had  quickly  joined  me: 
"Didn't  find  him,  eh?  Well,  that's  not  strange. 
Having  lost  the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  he  's  probably  gone 
to  borrow  another  from  a  laundryman  friend  in  Cos 
Cob;  and  that,  by  the  way,  is  about  the  nearest  place 
for  you  to  buy  gasolene." 

The  next  day  I  spent  at  my  office,  in  New  York, 
busy  with  the  hundred  details  that  go  to  the  making 

[71] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

of  a  periodical  which  aims  to  focus  popular  sentiment 
to  a  righteous  viewpoint  concerning  matters  of  na- 
tional and  social  import.  For  the  time  being  my  con- 
sideration of  Cameron  and  his  strange  problem  was 
suspended.  Now  and  then  the  subject  recurred  to 
me,  dragged  into  the  mental  light  on  the  train  of  Ev- 
elyn Grayson;  but  almost  immediately  it  was  buried 
beneath  a  question  of  editorial  policy  or  a  debate  re- 
garding a  contract  for  white  paper  at  an  extortionate 
increase  in  price. 

When,  however,  my  business  day  was  ended,  and  I 
had  boarded  the  train  for  Greenwich,  the  whole 
involved  enigma  spread  itself  again  before  me,  de- 
manding attention.  And  in  the  midst  of  it,  dominat- 
ing it,  stretching  his  great  shadow  over  it  to  the 
farthest  limit,  appeared  that  frowsy  red  giant, 
Murphy,  a  mystery  within  a  mystery;  for,  though 
he  seemed  to  pervade  it,  there  was  no  point  at  which 
I  could  discover  him  quite  touching  it. 

In  vain  I  tried  to  detect  a  real  connection.  I 
started  with  the  letters.  They  bore  no  single  char- 
acteristic mark  of  this  uncouth  creature.  As  an 
artist  he  might  have  devised  the  curious  silhouette 
signature,  but  there  was  something  about  that  —  some 
cunning,  inventive  subtlety  —  which  I  could  not  rec- 

[72] 


FOUND    DEAD 

oncile  with  the  ogre  I  had  played  upon,  stung  to  anger 
and  aroused  to  curiosity. 

That  he  could  either  have  conceived  or  executed  the 
ruin  of  the  portrait  I  did  not  believe  possible.  The 
conception,  like  the  letters  and  the  signature,  bore 
evidence  of  a  craftiness  too  fine  for  such  as  he ;  and 
to  fancy  him,  mammoth  that  he  was,  stealing  unob- 
served into  Cameron's  study,  was  to  fancy  the  in- 
incredible. 

And  so,  though  the  impression  of  intimate  relation- 
ship persisted,  I  could  find  no  point  of  contact,  closer 
or  more  definite  than  through  his  servant's  rifle  prac- 
tice, which  after  all  might  have  been  quite  without 
motive. 

There  was  little,  therefore,  in  the  line  of  reason,  to 
convict  Murphy  of  any  knowledge  of  the  matters 
which  had  so  disturbed  us.  And  yet,  as  I  have  said, 
I  felt  intuitively  that  he  possessed  an  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  the  whole  affair. 

At  the  Greenwich  station,  I  found  my  touring  car 
waiting;  my  mother  in  the  tonneau.  My  chauffeur 
touched  his  cap  as  I  approached. 

"You  may  drive,  Francois,"  I  said,  and  I  took  the 
place  at  my  mother's  side. 

"You  look  tired,  Philip,"  she  announced  when  I 

[73] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

had  kissed  her.  "Was  it  very  warm  in  the  city?" 
Her  eyes  were  ever  quick  to  note  infinitesimal  changes 
in  my  appearance  of  well-being. 

"Not  uncomfortable,"  I  answered,  indulgently.  "I 
had  a  very  busy  day,  though.  But  I  'm  not  the  less 
fit  because  of  it." 

"We  have  had  some  little  excitement  here,"  she  has- 
tened, eager  to  give  me  the  news.  "Old  Romney 
called  you  up  on  the  telephone  about  noon.  I  hap- 
pened to  answer  it,  myself,  and  when  I  told  him  you 
were  in  New  York,  and  would  not  be  back  until  six, 
it  just  seemed  he  could  n't  wait  to  unburden  himself. 
'Won't  you  please  tell  him,  Mrs.  Clyde,'  he  said,  'that 
Mr.  Murphy's  Chinaman  was  found  at  daybreak  this 
morning,  lying  dead  just  outside  Murphy's  back 
door?' " 

"Found  dead!"  I  cried,  in  amazement. 

"That  is  what  he  said.  Then  he  added  that  the 
poor  fellow's  head  had  been  crushed  with  some  heavy 
instrument,  and  that  Mr.  Murphy  had  been  arrested 
on  suspicion  and  was  in  the  Cos  Cob  lockup." 

For  a  full  minute,  I  think,  I  sat  in  silent  amaze. 
Then  theories  and  conjectures  in  infinite  variety  gave 
chase,  one  after  the  other,  through  my  excited  brain. 
But  it  was  more  than  ever  difficult,  I  found,  to  reach 
anything  like  a  satisfactory  conclusion  concerning  the 

[74] 


FOUND    DEAD 

position  the  now  lifeless  Celestial  and  his  accused  mas- 
ter held  in  the  chain  of  mysteries  I  wished  so  much 
to  solve.  That  they  were  both  of  them  more  or  less 
important  links,  however,  I  had  small  doubt. 

"Did  you  know  Mr.  Murphy?"  my  mother  asked. 
And  all  at  once  I  realized  that  her  question  was  a 
repetition.  In  my  absorption  I  had  not  heeded  the 
original  inquiry. 

"Nobody  knows  him,"  I  answered,  unconsciously 
echoing  the  words  voiced  by  the  man  in  the  catboat 
on  the  previous  night.  "Nobody  knows  him.  But 
I've  met  him  in  a  rather  casual  way." 


[73] 


CHAPTER  VI 

NELL  GWYNNE'S  MIRROR 

\\  7ITH  the  approach  of  the  twenty-first  of  the 
month,  which  is  to  say  the  seventh  day  follow- 
ing Cameron's  receipt  of  the  second  letter,  I  observed 
in  him  a  growing  nervous  restlessness,  which  with 
praiseworthy  effort  he  was  evidently  striving  to  over- 
come. Of  my  visit  to  the  red  giant  and  the  tragedy 
which  followed  it,  he  was,  of  course,  informed;  as  he 
had  been  of  the  incident  in  the  wood,  including  the 
finding  of  the  bullet-pierced  piece  of  canvas.  Every- 
thing, save  only  that  Evelyn  was  the  discoverer  of 
the  portrait  remnant  —  which  I  thought  best  under 
the  circumstances  to  keep  secret  —  was  told  to  him  in 
detail,  and  with  all  the  circumstantiality  necessary  to 
an  intelligent  discussion  of  even  the  minutest  point. 
My  description  of  Murphy  elicited  from  him  a 
recollection.  He  remembered  having  seen  the  man 
once.  It  was  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  Evelyn  and 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  Cameron's  housekeeper,  had  accom- 
panied Cameron  to  what  is  called  "The  Port  of  Miss- 
ing Men,"  a  resort  for  motorists,  on  the  summit  of 

[76] 


NELL    GWYNNE'S    MIRROR 

Titicus  Mountain.  They  had  lunched  there  and 
were  returning  by  a  route  which  took  them  over  a 
succession  of  execrable  roads,  but  through  some  of 
the  most  glorious  scenery  in  the  whole  State  of  Con- 
necticut. For  a  while  they  had  been  following  a 
stream,  willow-girt,  that  went  babbling  down  over 
a  rocky  bed  which  at  intervals  broke  the  waters  into 
a  series  of  falls  and  cascades.  At  the  foot  of  one  of 
these  they  had  stopped  the  car  and  alighted  for  a 
better  view,  and  so  had  come  upon  the  unexpected. 

Seated  upon  a  great  bowlder,  his  feet  in  the  water, 
and  his  easel  planted  between  the  stones  of  the 
stream's  shallows,  was  a  red-headed,  red-bearded 
Colossus,  in  a  soiled  suit  of  khaki  and  a  monstrous 
straw  hat  such  as  is  worn  by  harvesting  farmers. 
Cameron  told  me  that  all  three  of  them  made  bold 
to  peep  over  the  painter's  shoulder  at  his  work,  and 
then,  though  it  was  of  the  most  mediocre  quality,  to 
shower  him  with  laudatory  and  congratulatory 
phrases. 

"I  can  fancy  how  he  thanked  you,"  I  broke  in, 
smiling.  "I  suppose  he  said  something  very  rude." 

"He  said  nothing  at  all.  He  simply  stopped  paint- 
ing, and  turning,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  me.  It  was  as 
if  he  saw  no  other  one  of  us.  He  seemed  to  be  mak- 
ing a  careful  appraisement  of  my  every  feature. 

[77] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

After  a  moment  it  grew  embarrassing,  and  though  I 
did  not  resent  it  —  feeling  rather  that  we,  ourselves, 
had  been  in  the  wrong  —  I  very  speedily  withdrew. 
To  my  surprise  he  rose  from  his  stone  seat;  and, 
palette  and  brush  in  hand,  followed  us  up  the  little 
acclivity  to  the  road,  watching  in  silence,  until  we  got 
back  into  our  car,  and  wheeled  away." 

"Did  you  gather  from  his  inspection  that  he  recog- 
nized you,  or  thought  he  recognized  you?"  I  asked. 

"I  gathered  only  that  he  meant  to  be  insufferably 
rude,"  was  Cameron's  answer. 

"And  you  have  never  seen  him  since?" 

"Never." 

"He  has  evidently  seen  you.  He  spoke  of  the  Rus- 
sian wolf-hounds  that  go  about  with  you." 

Cameron  made  no  response. 

"Well,"  I  added,  in  a  tone  meant  to  be  reassuring, 
"I  think  we  need  have  little  fear  of  a  continuance  of 
this  singular  method  of  annoyance.  Though  we 
can't  trace  it  directly  to  Murphy  and  his  unfortunate 
Mongolian,  I  thoroughly  believe  that  one  or  the  other 
was  responsible.  With  the  Chinaman  dead  and 
Murphy  in  jail,  the  persecution  will  cease.  The 
threat  contained  in  the  second  letter  will  never  be  ex- 
ecuted. See  if  I'm  not  right!" 

My  hope  of  putting  Cameron  at  ease,  however, 

[78] 


NELL    GWYNNE'S    MIRROR 

was  not  rewarded.  He  continued  to  exhibit  signs  of 
an  almost  constant  apprehension.  There  was,  indeed, 
a  sympathy-stirring  pathos  about  the  nervous  dis- 
quiet of  this  man,  usually  so  impenetrably  self-con- 
tained. And  at  moments,  in  spite  of  me,  a  suspicion 
gripped  and  held  that  he  had  not  been  entirely  frank; 
that  somewhere  in  his  past  there  was  something 
unrevealed  which  might  serve  as  a  clue,  if  not  an  ex- 
planation, to  the  present.  But  these  doubts  of  him 
were  always  transitory. 

The  twenty-first  of  September  fell  that  year  on 
Monday.  My  office  demanded  my  presence,  but  I 
arranged  affairs  as  well  as  possible  by  telephone  and 
devoted  the  entire  day  to  Cameron.  When  I  told 
him  I  meant  to  do  this  he  protested,  pretending  that 
he  was  quite  without  foreboding ;  while  the  unconscious 
tapping  of  his  foot  on  the  rug,  even  as  he  spoke,  be- 
lied his  words. 

We  spent  the  better  part  of  the  day  golfing  over 
the  Apawamis  links  at  Rye,  lunching  at  the  Club 
house  between  rounds,  for  as  a  specific  for  nerves  I 
have  ever  found  that  game  of  rare  benefit.  In  the 
present  instance  it  more  than  fulfilled  my  expecta- 
tions. Cameron,  apparently  at  least,  forgot  every- 
thing save  his  desire  to  out-drive,  out-approach,  and 
out-put  me.  And  when  it  was  over,  and  with  sharp- 

[79] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

ened  appetites  we  drove  back  to  Cragholt  for  dinner, 
he  appeared  stimulated  by  a  new-found  courage. 

The  day  had  passed  without  untoward  event,  and 
I  felt  sure  that  my  friend  was  gradually  coming 
around  to  my  way  of  thinking.  Neither  of  us  men- 
tioned the  subject,  but  it  must  have  recurred  to  him, 
at  intervals,  as  it  did  to  me.  And  as  the  hours  went 
by  without  a  sign,  the  conviction  grew  that  Murphy, 
with  hands  tied,  was  fretting  over  the  coup  he  was 
deterred  from  compassing. 

Mrs.  Lancaster,  whom  I  have  mentioned  merely  as 
Cameron's  housekeeper,  but  who  was,  in  addition,  a 
distant  kinswoman  and  acted  as  a  sort  of  duenna  to 
Evelyn,  dined  with  us  that  evening,  and  our  little 
partie  came  seemed  to  me  more  than  usually  merry, 
owing  doubtless  to  the  relaxation  of  the  strain  which 
both  Cameron  and  I  had  been  under  for  the  past  week. 

It  gratified  me  to  see  my  host  so  unf  eignedly  cheer- 
ful. I  remember  how  he  laughed  over  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster's recital  of  an  incident  of  the  morning. 

"I  had  no  idea,"  she  said,  "that  Andrew,"  refer- 
ring to  the  kennel  master,  "was  married.  He  aston- 
ished me  when  he  told  me  he  had  a  wife  and  three 
children.  And  when  I  told  him  he  did  not  look  like 
a  married  man  he  seemed  rather  pleased  than  other- 
wise." 

[80] 


NELL    GWYNNE'S    MIRROR 

"It  is  odd,"  Cameron  returned,  "but  it  seems  always 
to  flatter  a  husband  to  tell  him  he  doesn't  look  it." 
And  then  he  laughed  as  though  he  had  no  care 
on  earth. 

After  dinner  we  had  the  usual  music,  and  Evelyn 
sang  again  that  lyric  of  Baudelaire's,  this  time  in  the 
original  French.  But  the  melody  brought  back  to 
me  in  vivid  vision  our  chance  meeting  in  the  woods  and 
all  its  train  of  circumstances. 

When  I  had  finished  applauding,  Cameron  turned 
to  me. 

"Do  you  like  Baudelaire?" 

"I  like  his  art,"  I  answered,  "and  his  frank  artifici- 
ality." 

"He  appeals  to  me,"  Cameron  confessed,  "decadent 
though  he  is.  I  have  read  everything  he  ever  wrote, 
I  think,  prose  and  verse.  Did  you  ever  see  my  copy 
of  his  'Fleurs  du  Mai'?  The  casket  is  worthy  of  its 
contents.  It  is  the  most  exquisitely  bound  little  vol- 
ume I  ever  saw.  Come,  I  '11  show  it  you." 

I  excused  myself  to  Mrs.  Lancaster,  and  with  pre- 
tended formality  bent  over  Evelyn's  hand,  brushing 
it  with  my  lips. 

"Won't  you  be  back?"  she  whispered. 

"I  hope  so,"  was  my  answer.  "But  I  can't 
promise." 

6  [81] 


"Oh,  what  a  trial  it  is  to  have  a  selfish  uncle!"  she 
murmured  as  I  went. 

Cameron  led  me  through  the  library,  across  the  hall, 
and  thence  into  his  study,  where  he  dove  into  a  mini- 
ature book  rack  reserved  for  his  favorites.  After 
a  moment  of  fruitless  search  he  said : 

"It  is  n't  here.  How  stupid!  I  took  it  up-stairs  a 
week  ago,  I  remember.  It  is  in  my  dressing  room. 
Do  you  mind  coming  up?" 

Did  I  mind  coming  up?  How  glad  I  was  to  see 
him  interested!  He  was  more  like  the  old  Cameron 
than  he  had  been  at  any  time  in  the  past  seven  days. 
My  golf  prescription  had  proved  even  more  effica- 
cious than  I  had  dared  hope. 

At  the  risk  of  being  tedious  I  must  describe  Cam- 
eron's dressing  room.  It  was  not  large  —  probably 
twenty  feet  square  —  with  three  doors;  one  on  each 
of  three  sides.  That  which  admitted  from  the  pas- 
sageway faced  that  which  opened  into  the  bath  room. 
On  the  left,  the  third  door  connected  with  Cameron's 
bedchamber.  On  the  right  were  two  windows,  giving 
upon  an  outside  balcony.  Between  them  was  a  fire- 
place. 

To  the  left  of  the  bath  room  door  was  the  entrance 
to  a  huge  closet,  guarded  by  a  heavy  curtain  of  old 
rose  velvet.  To  the  right,  was  a  stationary  wash- 


NELL    GWYNNE'S    MIRROR 

stand,  and  above  it  a  rectangular  mirror,  probably  ten 
inches  wide  and  a  foot  long,  and  very  curiously 
framed.  Across  from  this,  against  the  wall  which 
divided  the  room  from  the  passage,  was  an  enormous 
chiffonier,  or  chest  of  drawers.  In  the  room's  centre 
was  a  round  table,  on  which  rested  a  reading  lamp. 
Between  the  table  and  the  fireplace  was  a  reclining 
chair.  Other  chairs,  three  or  four,  were  variously 
placed. 

I  have  given  these  facts  because  they  are  necessary 
to  an  intelligent  understanding  of  what  I  am  about  to 
relate.  That  in  furnishing  and  adornment  the  room 
was  plainly  utilitarian  is  not  so  material.  But  there 
is  one  exception  to  this  general  declaration  which 
demands  to  be  specified.  The  mirror  above  the  wash- 
stand  possessed  a  distinction  quite  aside  from  its  prac- 
tical utility.  This  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  I 
had  seen  it.  Cameron  had  showed  it  to  me,  with  a 
degree  of  pride,  early  in  our  acquaintance,  explaining 
that  it  was  at  once  a  relic  and  an  heirloom.  Orig- 
inally the  property  of  Nell  Gwynne,  it  had  descended 
to  him  through  three  or  four  generations  of  maternal 
ancestors. 

The  glass  was  framed  in  colored  beadwork,  to  which 
were  attached  wax  figures  in  high  relief:  at  the  top, 
a  miniature  portrait  of  Charles  II  in  his  State  robes ; 

[83] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

at  the  bottom,  one  of  Nell  herself,  in  court  dress. 
The  King  appeared  also  on  the  right,  in  hunting  cos- 
tume, and  on  the  left  was  another  figure  of  his  favo- 
rite in  less  ornamental  garb.  According  to  the 
legend  which  accompanied  this  interesting  antique,  it 
was  Nell  Gwynne's  own  handiwork.  Cameron  told 
me  he  had  used  it  as  a  shaving  mirror  as  long  as  he 
could  remember. 

It  possessed  for  me  a  certain  fascination  due  more 
to  its  history  than  its  beauty,  for  it  was  not  the  most 
artistic  of  creations,  and  as  Cameron  poked  about  for 
his  Baudelaire,  I  stood  gazing  at  the  glass  and  think- 
ing of  all  I  had  ever  read  of  the  illiterate,  but  saucy, 
sprightly  actress  whose  sole  claim  to  fame  hung  on 
her  winning  the  favor  of  that  easy-going,  royal  hypo- 
crite, Charles  II. 

"Here  's  the  binding!"  I  heard  Cameron  say,  and 
turned  from  the  mirror  to  the  table,  where  he  had 
found  his  sought-for  treasure  beneath  a  pile  of 
heavier,  grosser  works. 

"You  know  something  of  book-binding,"  he  went 
on,  with  enthusiasm.  "Now  examine  that  carefully, 
and  tell  me  if  you  ever  saw  anything  more  exquisite. 
I  had  it  done  in  London,  last  year.  It 's  a  copy  of 
one  of  Le  Gascon's." 

At  first  sight  it  seemed  all  glittering  gold,  but  on 

[84] 


NELL    GWYNNE'S    MIRROR 

closer  inspection  I  found  that  the  groundwork  was 
bright  red  morocco,  inlaid  with  buff,  olive,  and  marble 
leather,  the  spaces  closely  filled  with  very  delicate  and 
beautiful  pointille  traceries.  It  was  a  veritable  gem 
in  its  way,  and  I  could  not  blame  Cameron  for  his 
raptures. 

When  I  had  applauded  and  bepraised  to  his  con- 
tent, he  took  the  little  volume  from  my  hand  and 
opening  it,  with  a  sort  of  slow  reverence,  observed 
with  something  like  patronism: 

"I  'm  afraid  you  don't  quite  understand  Baude- 
laire." 

"Does  anybody?"  I  flung  back. 

"He  is  not  so  obscure  as  his  critics  would  have  us 
believe,"  Cameron  asserted.  "Sit  down  in  that  loung- 
ing chair  a  moment,  and  I  '11  read  you  something." 
And  as  I  obeyed,  he  drew  up  a  chair  for  himself, 
speaking  all  the  while  in  denunciation  of  Tolstoi  and 
the  injustice  of  his  criticism. 

One  poem  after  another  he  read,  while  I  lay  back 
listening.  To  his  credit  he  read  them  well,  though 
he  paused  often  in  mid-verse  to  explain  what  he 
thought  I  might  regard  as  an  affectation  or,  as  Tolstoi 
has  put  it,  "an  intentional  obscurity." 

There  was  one  verse  which  impressed  me  particu- 
larly as  he  read  it,  and  remained  with  me  for  a  long 

[85] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

while  afterward,  for,  in  view  of  everything,  it  seemed 
to  have  a  special  appositiveness.  The  lines  to  which 
I  refer  have  been  translated  in  this  way : 

From  Heaven's  high  balconies 

See!  in  their  threadbare  robes  the  dead  years  cast  their  eyes, 
And  from  the  depths  below  regret's  wan  smile  appears. 

Cameron  sat  with  his  back  to  the  door  leading  to 
the  passageway,  and  facing,  diagonally,  across  the 
table,  the  Nell  Gwynne  mirror.  My  own  back  was 
towards  the  washstand,  and  my  gaze  was  on  him  as 
he  read. 

As  he  finished  the  verse,  a  portion  of  which  I  have 
quoted,  he  lifted  his  eyes,  I  thought  to  meet  mine,  but 
his  look  rose  over  my  head,  and  clung,  while  his  'ids 
widened,  and  into  every  line  of  his  face  there  came  a 
rigid,  startled  expression,  half  amazement,  half  hor- 
ror. And  in  that  instant  of  tense  silence  the  "Fleurs 
du  Mai"  slipped  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  struck  the 
table  edge,  and  dropped  with  unseemly  echo  to  the 
floor. 

In  a  breath  I  was  on  my  feet  and  staring  where  his 
vision  had  focussed.  I  hardly  know  what  I  expected 
to  see.  I  am  sure  nothing  would  have  surprised  me. 
And  yet  I  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the  inexplicable 

[86] 


NELL    GWYNNE'S    MIRROR 

ruin  which  my  sight  encountered.     The  glass  of  the 
Nell  Gwynne  mirror  was  in  atoms. 

Cameron  rose,  a  little  unsteadily  I  thought,  and 
coming  around  the  table,  joined  me  in  closer  inspec- 
tion of  his  wrecked  hereditament.  I  can  find  no  word 
adequate  to  the  description  of  what  we  experienced. 
Amazement  and  all  its  synonyms  are  far  too  feeble 
for  the  task.  We  were  certainly  more  than  appalled. 
What  we  saw  suggested  to  me  spontaneous  disinte- 
gration. If  such  a  thing  were  possible,  which  I  be- 
lieve it  is  not,  it  might  have  explained  the  condition 
of  the  mirror.  No  other  ascription  seemed  admissi- 
ble; for,  though  the  glass  remained  in  its  frame,  not 
so  much  as  a  splinter  having  been  dropped,  it  was 
fractured  into  a  thousand  tiny  pieces,  resembling  a 
crystal  mosaic,  incapable  of  any  but  the  most  minute 
reflections.  And  the  change  to  this  condition  from  a 
fair,  unmarred  panel  had  been  wrought  without  sound 
and  seemingly  without  human  agency. 

For  just  a  moment  Cameron  stared  in  dumb  awe. 
When  he  turned  to  me  he  appeared  suddenly  to  have 
aged.  His  eyes  were  lustreless,  and  his  cheeks  wore  a 
gray  pallor. 

"My  God!"  he  murmured  in  a  kind  of  breathless 
whisper. 

[87] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

I  would  have  given  a  great  deal  to  have  been  able 
to  allay  that  terror  of  the  impalpable  which  was 
gripping  him.  But  I  was  helpless.  Shocked  and 
astounded,  myself,  solace  was  not  at  my  command. 
More  to  escape  the  piteous  appeal  of  his  silent  gaze 
than  in  hope  of  making  discovery,  I  turned  in  haste 
to  one  of  the  long  windows  which  opened  on  the  outer 
balcony.  Drawing  back  the  sashes  and  flinging  them 
wide,  I  stepped  outside  and  leaned,  listening,  over  the 
railing. 

But  the  night  was  strangely  still.  There  was  no 
sound,  even,  of  stirring  leaves.  A  brooding  hush 
seemed  spread  over  all  the  outdoor  world  —  that  omi- 
nous silence  which  often  precedes  the  breaking  of  a 
storm.  I  looked  up  to  find  the  heavens  wrapped  in  a 
pall  of  inky  cloud.  And  then,  with  a  feeling  of  hav- 
ing fled  from  a  lesser  to  a  greater  evil,  I  returned  to 
the  lighted  room,  and  closed  the  window  to  shut  out 
the  horror  of  the  night. 

Cameron  was  standing  where  I  had  left  him.  He 
looked  wofully  tired  and  haggard. 

"Explain  it !"  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "My  God,  Clyde, 
explain  it!" 

"I  would  to  Heaven  I  could,"  was  my  forlorn  reply. 


[88] 


CHAPTER  VII 

"FROM  SIGHT  OF  MEN  INTO  TORMENT" 

OELDOM  have  I  passed  a  more  miserable  hour 
than  that  which  followed  upon  the  seeming  phe- 
nomenon I  have  described.  Cameron  was  nervously 
in  tatters  and  my  own  poise  was  something  more  than 
threatened.  The  sight  of  a  usually  brave,  strong, 
self-contained  person  of  stolidly  phlegmatic  tempera- 
ment transformed  into  a  relaxed,  nerveless,  apprehen- 
sive creature  is  enough  of  itself  to  try  one's  fortitude, 
even  with  the  most  favorable  collateral  conditions. 
And  the  collateral  conditions  here  were  quite  the  re- 
verse. That  which  had  affected  Cameron  had  ex- 
erted an  influence  upon  me  as  well,  knowing,  as  I  did, 
all  the  circumstances  and  being  interested,  as  I  was, 
in  my  friend's  problem.  And  so  while  his  plight  tore 
at  my  heartstrings,  my  own  inability  to  grapple  with 
the  mystery  contributed  an  added  mental  distress. 

To  my  dismay  I  found  Cameron  quite  incapable  of 
anything  approaching  a  calm,  common-sense  discus- 
sion of  the  matter,  and  realized  to  the  full  the  mischief 

[89] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

which  this  last  performance,  coming  as  a  climax  upon 
a  week  of  more  or  less  disquietude,  had  effected. 

He  sat  most  of  the  time  with  head  bent  forward 
and  knees  doubled,  his  toes  touching  the  floor  but  his 
heels  raised  and  in  constant  vibrating  movement,  as 
though  stricken  with  palsy.  The  fingers  of  one  hand 
toyed  incessantly,  too,  with  the  fingers  of  the  other, 
in  a  variety  of  twisting,  snakelike  involutions.  In 
vain  I  endeavored  to  arouse  him ;  to  stir  in  him  a  spirit 
of  retaliation.  Some  one  was  playing  tricks  upon  him, 
and  that  some  one  must  be  discovered  and  brought 
to  justice.  Common  sense  told  us  that,  however  mys- 
terious these  happenings  appeared,  they  could  not 
have  occurred  without  human  agency.  It  was  our 
task  to  discover  the  agent  and  punish  him.  This  was 
my  line  of  argument ;  but  through  it  all,  Cameron  sat 
unmoved  and  unresponsive. 

And  then  there  came  to  me  again,  that  unwelcome 
suspicion  that  all  along  he  had  been  hiding  something 
from  me ;  that  he  divined  the  cause  and  the  source  of 
the  persecution,  but  for  some  reason  of  his  own  would 
not  divulge  them. 

I  rang  for  one  of  the  footmen  and  had  some  brandy 
brought,  and  forced  Cameron  to  swallow  a  stiff  drink 
of  it,  in  which  I  joined  him.  But  even  this  stimulant 

[90] 


"FROM     SIGHT     OF    MEN' 

had  small  effect  upon  him.  And  when,  finally,  I  re- 
luctantly bade  him  good-night,  I  was  overwhelmed  by 
the  pathos  of  his  condition.  So  wrought  and  tor- 
tured, indeed,  was  I,  by  the  sad  picture  of  dethroned 
courage  which  followed  me  home,  that  sleep  fled  me 
and  left  me  wide-eyed  until  the  dawn. 

The  tidings  which  came  to  me  with  my  coffee  that 
morning  were  more  than  half  expected.  Cameron 
was  ill,  and  his  physician  had  been  summoned  from 
New  York. 

When  I  reached  Cragholt  the  doctor  had  come 
and  gone,  and  a  trained  nurse  was  in  attendance. 
Evelyn,  meeting  me  in  the  hall,  conveyed  this  intelli- 
gence in  a  breath,  and  then,  laying  hold  upon  me,  a 
slender  hand  upon  each  coat  sleeve,  her  big  eyes 
pleading  and  anxious,  she  ran  on: 

"It  is  shock,  Dr.  Massey  says.  Deferred  shock, 
he  called  it.  He  says  Uncle  Robert  has  suffered 
from  some  sudden  grief,  fright,  or  other  dreadful 
mental  impression.  His  temperature  is  way  below 
normal  and  his  pulse  is  a  sort  of  rapid  feeble  flutter. 
Oh,  do  tell  me  what  you  know  about  it.  What  shock 
has  he  had?  You  were  with  him  last  evening.  He 
was  gay  enough  when  you  and  he  went  from  the  music 
room.  What  happened  afterward?" 

[91] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

Caressingly  I  rested  my  palms  upon  her  shoulders. 

"My  dear  little  girl,"  I  said,  soothingly.  "I  am 
sorry  I  can't  satisfy  your  very  natural  curiosity." 

"But  it  isn't  curiosity,"  she  corrected,  promptly. 
"It 's  interest." 

"Well,  interest  then.  I  'm  sorry,  I  say.  Some- 
thing did  happen;  but  to  tell  you  just  what  it  was, 
and  why  it  was  a  shock  to  him,  I  am  not  able.  Not 
now,  at  least.  Maybe,  some  day,  you  '11  know  all 
about  it." 

There  never  was  a  more  reasonable  young  person 
than  Evelyn  Grayson.  Most  girls,  I  fancy,  would 
have  teased  and  grown  peevish  at  being  denied.  But 
she  seemed  to  understand. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  uncle?"  she  asked  me. 

"I  don't  believe  it  would  be  wise,"  I  answered. 
"Probably  I,  being  a  reminder,  might  do  him  harm. 
Tell  me  how  he  seems?  He  is  n't  unconscious?" 

"No.  He  answers  questions.  But  he  never  says 
anything  for  himself.  And,  Philip,  he  looks  so 
pinched  and  old  and  pale!  And  his  hands  are  so 
cold.  The  nurse  has  taken  away  his  pillows  and  raised 
his  feet,  and  —  it 's  grewsome,  that 's  the  only  word 
that  describes  it." 

"But  he  '11  soon  be  better?  The  doctor  said  that, 
did  n't  he?" 

[92] 


"  But  it  isn't  curiosity,"  she  corrected.    "  It's  interest." 


"FROM     SIGHT    OF    MEN' 

"Yes.     He  said  that." 

But  the  reaction  which  usually  follows  shock  was 
only  partial  in  Cameron's  case,  and  for  days  his  life 
was  in  danger.  Then  followed  a  period  of  slow,  gen- 
eral recovery. 

As  the  month  of  October  progressed  I  feared  the 
liability  to  relapse.  I  knew,  instinctively,  with  what 
dread  sensations  he  must  be  awaiting  the  fourteenth 
of  the  month.  He  had  been  forbidden,  of  course,  to 
receive  any  mail,  just  as  he  had  been  denied  visitors; 
but  I  felt  that  in  this  matter  he  should  not  be  allowed 
to  dwell  in  an  uncertainty  that  must  of  necessity  prove 
injurious.  And  so  I  took  Dr.  Massey,  in  a  measure, 
into  my  confidence,  and  gained  from  him  permission 
to  see  Cameron  for  a  brief  moment. 

"He  has  been  asking  for  you,"  the  physician  in- 
formed me,  "but  I  fancied  it  better  to  make  no  excep- 
tions. Now,  however,  I  see  that  you  may  be  a  help 
instead  of  a  hindrance." 

Despite  the  more  or  less  circumstantial  reports  as 
to  his  condition  and  appearance  which  had  filtered  to 
me  from  the  sick  room,  through  the  medium  of  Eve- 
lyn, Miss  Collins,  the  nurse,  and  Dr.  Massey  and 
his  assistant,  Dr.  Thorne,  I  was  not  altogether  pre- 
pared for  the  marked  change  which  less  than  three 
weeks  had  wrought  in  my  friend.  He  was  peaked 

[93] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

and  bloodless  and  tired  and  old.  And  his  voice  was 
little  more  than  a  whisper. 

He  made  a  brave  effort  to  smile,  as  I  came  in,  but 
it  resulted  in  a  sad  grimacing  failure.  I  lifted  one 
of  his  thin,  clammy  hands  which  lay  inert  on  the  cover- 
lid, but  it  gave  me  only  the  feeblest  answering 
pressure. 

"I  'm  so  glad  you  're  better,"  I  told  him,  cheerily. 
"Fancy  the  doctor  allowing  me  to  see  you!  That 
shows  what  he  thinks." 

"Yes,"  he  whispered,  "I  'm  coming  round,  slowly. 
And  I  wanted  to  see  you,  Clyde.  What  day  of  the 
month  is  this?" 

"The  twelfth." 

"Day  after  to-morrow,  it  will  come,"  he  said. 

"Don't  be  too  sure,"  I  replied.  "I  think  they  've 
done  about  enough  to  satisfy  any  ordinary  villains." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  just  the 
faintest  turn  of  his  head  from  side  to  side,  he  said: 

"But  they  are  not  ordinary  villains." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "if  it  does  come,  I  shall  find  out 
how  it  got  here ;  and  that  will  be  a  step  towards  bring- 
ing them  to  justice." 

"You  '11  find  out?"  he  queried,  incredulously. 

"Yes.  I  '11  get  your  mail  that  day,  myself.  I  '11 
tell  that  monument  of  pomposity,  your  butler,  Mr. 

[94] 


"FROM     SIGHT    OF    MEN' 

Checkabeedy,  that  I  am  to  see  every  letter  that  comes 
to  the  house  and  know  how  and  by  whom  it  is  deliv- 
ered. Letters  can't  get  here  without  hands,  you 
know." 

"Other  things  seem  to  be  done  without  hands,"  was 
his  conclusive  comment;  and  I  had  no  reply  for  him. 

Concerning  Murphy  and  the  murdered  Chinaman, 
Cameron  did  not  ask,  and  I  was  glad  he  did  not.  For 
Murphy  had  been  discharged  from  custody,  for  lack 
of  evidence;  and  though  there  were  some  desultory 
efforts  making  to  place  the  blame  for  the  Celestial's 
violent  taking-off,  I  doubted  that  they  would  have 
practicable  result. 

The  precautions  against  surprise  on  the  fourteenth, 
which  I  had  outlined  so  briefly  to  Cameron,  I  carried 
out  with  added  detail.  For  instance,  I  instructed 
Romney  to  report  to  me  every  person  who  passed  in 
or  out  of  the  gates  guarded  by  his  Lodge.  I  had 
Kilgour,  the  superintendent  of  the  Cameron  acres, 
issue  similar  orders  to  his  men  concerning  any  stran- 
gers seen  on  the  estate  that  day.  And,  finally,  when 
not  fetching  the  mail  from  the  post  office,  myself  — 
and  four  times  I  made  the  trip  —  I  sat  on  guard  in 
Cameron's  study,  waiting  and  expectant. 

But  the  day  passed,  it  seemed,  without  the  looked- 
for  incident.  Every  letter,  by  post  or  by  hand,  which 

[95] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

came  that  day,  inside  the  Cragholt  limits  was  by  me 
personally  inspected,  and  amongst  them  all  there 
was  no  one  which  bore  the  faintest  resemblance  to 
those  two  baleful  missives  of  the  two  preceding 
fourteenths. 

When  I  had  made  my  last  trip  to  the  post  office, 
finished  my  final  inspection,  and  was  almost  jubilant 
over  the  significant  cessation  of  the  threats  which,  in 
their  ultimate  fulfilment  at  least,  had  brought  my 
friend  so  close  to  dissolution,  I  made  haste  to  carry 
to  Cameron  the  glad  news. 

Oddly  enough,  his  condition  in  the  past  forty-eight 
hours  had  materially  improved,  and  as  Dr.  Massey 
attributed  this,  in  part  at  least,  to  the  influence  exerted 
by  my  brief  visit,  I  was  now  permitted  to  repeat  the 
treatment  at  pleasure. 

It  wanted  but  a  few  minutes  of  eight  o'clock,  and 
Checkabeedy  seized  the  occasion  to  inform  me,  as  I 
passed  through  the  hall,  that  dinner  had  been  waiting 
for  nearly  a  half -hour;  a  fact  which  I  knew  quite  as 
well  as  he,  but  which  I  had  chosen  to  disregard  in 
favor  of  more  pressing  and  important  employment. 
Nevertheless  I  had  dressed  before  going  for  the  last 
mail,  and  as  a  moment  would  suffice  to  assure  Cam- 
eron that  all  was  well,  I  relieved  the  mind  of  the  dis- 
tressed butler,  by  assuring  him  that  dinner  should  not 

[96] 


"FROM    SIGHT    OF    MEN' 

wait  over  five  minutes  longer,  so  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned. 

A  very  light  tap  on  the  chamber  door  was  answered 
by  Miss  Collins,  who  came  out  into  the  passage  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"I  fear  it  is  not  advisable  for  you  to  see  him,  now, 
Mr.  Clyde,"  she  said.  "He  has  suddenly  had  a  return 
of  some  of  his  worst  symptoms,  and  I  am  sure  Dr. 
Massey  would  object  to  his  being  at  all  excited." 

"But  I  shan't  excite  him,"  I  explained.  "I  have 
the  very  best  of  news  for  him.  It  is  his  anxiety  over 
a  certain  matter,  no  doubt,  which  has  brought  about 
the  symptoms  you  speak  of.  I  know  I  can  relieve 
his  mind,  which  I  have  reason  to  believe  has  been  all 
day  under  an  unusual  strain." 

But  still  this  efficient-looking,  white-clad  woman 
was  not  wholly  convinced. 

"It  must  be  only  for  a  minute  then,"  she  finally 
allowed.  "You  can  go  in  alone.  But  at  the  end  of 
sixty  seconds,"  she  added,  as  she  glanced  at  the  little 
gold  watch  she  wore  pinned  to  her  spotless  waist,  "I 
shall  interrupt  you ;  and  then  you  must  leave." 

Yielding,  perforce,  to  her  condition,  I  entered. 
And  as  I  did  so,  Cameron  half  rose  on  his  elbow, 
regarding  me  with  what  I  thought  was  anxiety  for 
my  report. 

7  [97] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

"It 's  aU  right,"  I  said,  quietly.  "All  right.  Not 
so  much  as  a  line  from  the  enemy.  They  have  with- 
drawn, just  as  I  — " 

But  he  interrupted  me. 

"Here,  quick!"  he  was  saying.  "Take  this!"  And 
I  saw  then  that  one  hand  was  drawing  something 
from  beneath  his  pillow.  The  next  moment  he  had 
given  me  a  long  envelope  of  that  thin,  waxy  texture 
I  had  learned  to  loathe. 

For  a  heartbeat  I  stood  appalled,  transfixed. 

"Quick!"  he  insisted,  excitedly.  "Open  it!  Read 
it!  She'll  not  leave  us  long  and  I  must  know  its 
contents." 

"But  how — "  I  began,  as  I  tore  the  end  of  the 
envelope. 

"God  knows,"  he  answered,  before  I  had  put  my 
question  into  words.  "I  had  been  dozing;  about  an 
hour  ago.  I  stretched  out  my  hand,  unconsciously, 
and  that  lay  beneath  it,  on  the  counterpane.  It 
crackled  as  I  touched  it ;  and  I  knew  then,  even  before 
I  recognized  the  feel  of  it." 

Sixty  seconds!  Was  there  ever  such  an  intermi- 
nable period?  Sixty  long  seconds  before  that  door 
would  open  with  the  interruption  that  would  spare 
me.  I  fumbled  with  the  devilish  paper;  let  it  slip 
through  my  fingers;  tore  a  bit  here  and  a  bit  there; 

[98] 


"FROM    SIGHT    OF    MEN' 

finished  the  tearing;  and  then,  dissembling,  began 
tearing  the  other  end.  And  still  the  seconds  lagged; 
still  the  door  remained  stationary. 

"My  God,  Clyde!"  Cameron  cried,  in  a  frenzy  of 
impatience.  "What 's  the  matter  with  you  to-night? 
Are  you  never  going  to  get  that  thing  open?" 

And  then  I,  desperate,  too,  with  eyes  fixed  implor- 
ingly on  the  door,  was  about  to  answer  him  with  the 
truth  —  that  I  did  not  want  to  open  it ;  that  I  would 
not,  could  not  read  him  the  contents;  that  he  must 
wait  and  trust  me,  absolutely  —  when,  quite  without 
design  on  my  part,  the  envelope  fell  to  the  rug  at  my 
feet.  And  as  I  stooped  to  recover  it,  I  heard  the 
door-knob  turn. 

When  I  regained  the  upright,  Miss  Collins  was 
entering,  and  the  letter  was  in  the  pocket  of  my  din- 
ner jacket. 

"And  so  you  see,  Cameron,"  I  said,  speaking  dis- 
tinctly and  with  double  purpose,  the  nurse  being  in 
ear-shot,  "everything  is  quite  right.  The  matter  you 
spoke  of  shall  be  attended  to,  at  once,  and  I  '11  report 
to  you,  to-night  —  before  ten  o'clock,  surely." 

The  reproach  in  his  eyes  stung  me,  and  the  pain 
of  it  followed  me  from  the  room  and  stabbed  me  at 
intervals  during  dinner.  And  yet  it  was  not  the  part 
of  sanity  to  have  acted  otherwise  than  I  did.  The 

[99] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

temptation  had  occurred  to  me  to  invent  phrases  and 
sentences  expressive  of  satisfaction  over  the  effect  of 
the  previous  communications.  But  I  doubted  that,  in 
my  agitation,  I  should  be  successful  in  the  deception. 
And  so,  my  only  course  had  been  delay  —  stupid, 
bungling,  palpable  delay  it  was,  I  suppose,  but  after 
all  it  had  served ;  and,  though  it  left  Cameron  in  doubt, 
it  gave  me  time  and  opportunity  to  arrange  some  plan 
for  extracting  the  fangs  of  this  epistolary  adder  be- 
fore it  could  strike  its  prey. 

Purposely  I  delayed  reading  the  letter,  myself, 
until  after  I  had  dined.  I  chose  uncertainty  as  to  its 
contents  as  less  likely  noticeably  to  affect  my  de- 
meanor than  an  exact  knowledge  of  the  minatory  mes- 
sage which  I  felt  sure  it  carried. 

I  think  I  fancied  I  should  be  able  to  conceal  my 
real  state  of  mind.  Certainly  I  willed  to  do  so.  But 
I  was  very  soon  conscious  that  Evelyn  had  divined  my 
dissimulation.  Her  eyes  became  suddenly  grave  and 
questioning,  her  laughter  quieted,  and  her  conversa- 
tion, which  had  been  glad  and  gay,  relapsed  abruptly 
into  the  serious.  When  the  coffee  and  liqueurs  had 
been  brought  on,  Mrs.  Lancaster  asked  to  be  excused, 
and  left  us  alone  together. 

There  followed  then  a  moment  of  silence  between 
us,  while  I  selected  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it.  She 

[100] 


"FROM     SIGHT    OF    MEN' 

had  edged  her  chair  a  little  closer  to  me  —  she  was 
sitting  on  my  right,  as  usual  —  and  leaned  forward, 
her  slender  but  divinely  rounded  forearms  extended 
across  the  shining  damask  of  the  tablecloth. 

As  I  dropped  my  match  upon  the  tiny  silver  tray 
which  the  inimitable  Checkabeedy  had  placed  con- 
veniently at  my  elbow  I  turned  to  her  and  saw  her 
question  in  her  imploring  gaze  and  attitude  even  be- 
fore she  voiced  it. 

"Tell  me!"  was  what  she  said.  And  although  I 
knew  that  she  would  demand  it  I  was  unprepared. 
To  gain  time  rather  than  information  I  bade  her  be 
more  explicit. 

"Everything,"  she  pursued,  inclusively,  with  a  per- 
emptory emphasis  which  indicated  her  determination 
not  to  be  denied. 

My  hesitation  resulted  in  some  amplification  on 
her  part.  She  was  impatient  as  well  as  resolved,  and 
resented  what  she  interpreted  as  my  reluctance  to 
gratify  her. 

"Everything,"  she  repeated.  "Everything  that 
you  have  been  hiding  from  me  from  the  first.  I  am 
entitled  to  know.  What  about  the  head  that  was  cut 
from  the  portrait?  What  was  it  that  caused  the 
shock  which  brought  on  Uncle  Robert's  illness? 
Why  did  you  go  for  the  mail  four  times  to-day,  and 

[101] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

sit  all  the  rest  of  the  time  in  Uncle  Robert's  study? 
What  has  happened  to  make  him  worse  this  after- 
noon? What  is  troubling  you,  now?  I  'm  not  a 
child,  I  'm  a  woman,  and  I  refuse  to  be  kept  in  igno- 
rance any  longer." 

She  was  glorious  as  she  thus  formulated  her  de- 
mands, her  cheeks  blazing,  her  eyes  brilliant,  her  voice 
a  crescendo.  She  must  have  seen  my  admiration. 
Certainly  I  made  no  attempt  to  hide  it;  and  before 
she  had  quite  finished  I  had  possessed  myself  of  her 
clasped  hands,  and  was  bestowing  upon  them  an  ap- 
plauding pressure. 

And  her  argument  prevailed.  She  knew  too  much 
not  to  know  more.  Cameron's  wishes  in  the  matter 
could  no  longer  be  regarded.  Just  how  tactfully  I 
managed  the  disclosure  it  is  not  for  me  to  judge. 
Perhaps  I  told  more  than  I  should.  Possibly  I  re- 
vealed too  little.  I  was  guided  solely  by  the  wish  not 
to  alarm  her,  unduly.  And  yet,  as  nearly  every  fea- 
ture of  the  affair  was  of  necessity  alarming,  it  became 
a  vexing  problem  as  to  what  to  include  and  what  to 
omit. 

Eventually  she  heard  the  whole  story,  every  phase 
of  it.  And  so  it  is  not  altogether  clear  in  my  memory 
how  much  I  conveyed  that  night  and  how  much  was 
left  for  me  to  add  ten  days  later. 

[102] 


"FROM    SIGHT    OF    MEN' 

There  is  no  question,  however,  regarding  that  third 
letter  which  had  been  so  mysteriously  received  that 
day.  I  drew  it  from  the  envelope,  there,  at  the  table, 
and  we  read  it  together,  by  the  light  of  the  pink- 
shaded  candles ;  our  chairs  touching  and  her  cool  little 
left  hand  clasped  hard  in  my  sinewy  right. 

As  I  spread  the  sheet  that  sinister  appearing  black 
daub  at  the  bottom  smote  me  with  a  sense  of  ill  as 
acutely  poignant  as  a  rapier  thrust,  and  the  heavy, 
regular,  upright  chirography,  with  its  odd  fs  and  p's, 
so  awesomely  familiar,  was  scarcely  less  disturbing. 

Silently  the  girl  and  I  ran  through  the  dozen  lines. 

Like  its  two  predecessors  the  letter  began  with  the 
sentence : 

"That  which  you  have  wrought  shall  in  turn  be 
wrought  upon  you!3 

No  longer  could  this  be  regarded  as  idle  boasting. 
It  had  become  an  edict  of  grave  significance.  And 
what  followed  only  emphasized  the  proven  force  be- 
hind this  series  of  singular  communications. 

"All  having  been  performed  as  foretold,  our 
power  is  demonstrated/' 

Then,  simply,  almost  crudely,  but  of  horrid 
poignancy,  ran  the  words: 

[103] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"Know  then,  that  before  the  morning  of  the 
Eighth  Day  hence,  as  passed  the  face  from  the 
portrait,  as  passed  the  reflection  from  the  mir- 
ror, so  you,  physically,  will  pass  from  sight  of 
men  into  torment." 

As  I  read  my  breath  caught  in  my  throat  and  my 
pulses  paused.  Evelyn  pressed  closer  to  my  side,  and 
I  felt  her  shiver  as  with  cold.  The  final  words,  sol- 
emn, admonitory,  priestlike,  were  these: 

"Say  not  Heaven  is  high  above!  Heaven  as- 
scends  and  descends  about  our  deeds,  daily  in- 
specting us,  whersoever  we  are." 

Instantly  she  turned  to  me,  and  I  saw  there  were 
tears  on  her  cheeks,  and  that  her  long  dark  lashes 
were  wet. 

"You  cannot  tell  him  this,  Philip,"  she  said,  her 
voice  low  but  unfaltering. 

"No,"  I  replied,  "I  cannot  tell  him.  In  his  pres- 
ent condition,  it  might  be  fatal." 

"And  now  he  must  get  well,"  she  declared,  with 
decision.  "He  must  be  well  enough  in  a  few  days  to 
be  moved.  He  shall  not  stop  in  this  house  any  longer. 
He  shall  go  where  he  can  be  protected,  and  these 
fiends,  whoever  they  are,  cannot,  or  will  not  dare  to 
follow." 

As  she  spoke  an  inspiration  came  to  me. 

[104] 


"FROM    SIGHT    OF    MEN' 

"The  yacht,"  I  said. 

Impulsively  she  laid  hold  upon  my  arm,  in  a  way 
she  had. 

"The  Sibylla"  she  agreed,  delightedly.  "Of 
course.  It  will  do  everything  for  him." 

"But  what  am  I  to  tell  him  about  this?"  I  asked,  in 
perplexity. 

For  a  second  she  was  thoughtful. 

"We  couldn't  imitate  the  writing,  could  we?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  answered.  "We  could.  I  think  I  'd 
even  guarantee  to  reproduce  that  hideous  black  thing, 
but—" 

"But  what?" 

"We  can't  imitate  the  paper.  The  paper  is  as 
characteristic  as  any  of  the  other  features,  if  not  in- 
deed more  so.  And  he  knows  that  paper." 

"Then  you  must  just  lie  to  him,"  she  decided. 
"You  must  tell  him  the  envelope  was  empty;  and  you 
must  make  him  believe  it." 


[105] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SOMEWHERE  EAST   OF  NANTUCKET 

^PHE  Sibylla  under  stress  of  her  powerful  turbines 
was  racing  easily,  reeling  off  her  thirty  knots 
with  no  seeming  effort  and  scarcely  a  perceptible  vi- 
bration. There  had  been  a  stiff  breeze  during  the 
night,  but  it  had  died  down  at  sunrise,  and  now,  at 
noon,  the  sea  was  calm  as  the  bosom  of  a  nun.  The 
sun  blazed  warm  through  a  faint  golden  haze,  glint- 
ing on  the  yacht's  polished  brasses,  intensifying  the 
snowy  whiteness  of  her  glossy  paint,  and  turning  to 
jewelled  showers  the  spray  which  fell  away  from  her 
sharp  prow  and  caressed  her  long,  sleek  sides.  It 
was  wonderful  weather  for  late  October.  On  the 
nineteenth  the  temperature  had  risen  to  ninety  in  New 
York,  breaking  all  records  for  that  date;  and  now, 
two  days  later,  here  at  the  meeting  of  Sound  and 
Ocean,  with  Point  Judith  just  coming  into  view  over 
our  port  bow,  and  Block  Island  a  blur  abaft  our  star- 
board beam,  we  sat,  Cameron  and  I,  shaded  by  spread 
awnings,  on  the  after-deck,  as  though  it  were  mid- 
summer. For  he  had  been  convinced  by  my  righteous 

[106] 


EAST    OF    NANTUCKET 

untruth,  after  repeated  and  emphatic  dinning,  and 
had  daily  grown  stronger;  readily  agreeing  at  length 
to  a  cruise  along  the  coast,  with  Bar  Harbor  as  ob- 
jective. 

"That  is  precisely  what  I  had  the  Sibylla  built  for," 
he  told  me,  when  my  suggestion  found  acceptance. 
"Did  you  ever  notice  the  inscription  on  the  brass  tab- 
let over  the  fireplace  in  the  saloon?  No?  Well,  it 's 
this: 

'SIBYLLA,  WHEN  THOU  SEEST  ME  FAYNTE, 

ADDEESS  THYSELFE  THE  GYDE  OF  MY  COMPLAYNTE.' 

I  found  it  in  an  old  book,  published  in  1563,  a  poetic 
induction  to  'The  Mirror  of  Magistrates,'  written  by 
Thomas  Sackville.  You  can  fancy  how  my  applica- 
tion distorts  the  original  intention ;  but  Sackville  is  n't 
likely  to  trouble  me  over  it." 

I  repeat  this  explanation  now  mainly  to  indicate 
the  improved  temper  of  the  speaker.  His  mind  was 
placid  once  again,  and  with  this  recovered  placidity 
had  come  a  return  of  his  quiet  humor.  For  my  own 
part  I  was  not  altogether  happy.  My  delight  over 
my  friend's  recovery,  and  Evelyn's  pleasure  thereat, 
was  curdled  by  self-reproach  regarding  the  instru- 
ment I  had  employed  to  bring  it  about.  A  lie  is  to 
me  a  most  contemptible  agent,  and  to  make  use  of 

[107] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

one  has  been  always  abhorrent.  In  this  instance  I 
had  salved  my  conscience  in  a  measure  with  the  old 
excuse  that  the  end  justified  the  means,  but  it  was  only 
in  a  measure,  and  I  was  far  from  being  as  happy  as 
I  pretended. 

Moreover,  I  could  not  rid  myself  of  an  uneasiness 
—  a  misery,  indeed,  in  which  I  was  now  without  com- 
pany—  concerning  the  day  and  its  menace.  I  say 
"without  company,"  for  Cameron,  of  course,  had 
quite  dismissed  the  subject,  and  Evelyn,  who  previ- 
ously was  greatly  perturbed,  had  seemed  to  put  away 
all  apprehension  directly  she  saw  us  safe  aboard  the 
yacht.  There  had  been  some  talk  of  her  accompany- 
ing us,  but  without  signifying  my  real  reason,  I  had 
managed  to  dissuade  her. 

For  my  disquietude  there  was  certainly  no  logical 
ground.  I  had  taken  the  precaution  of  having  the 
Sibylla  searched  from  masthead  to  keelson  before  sail- 
ing. The  coal  was  examined  as  carefully  as  that  of 
a  battleship  in  time  of  war ;  every  locker  and  cupboard 
was  inspected;  even  the  ventilators  were  metaphori- 
cally turned  inside  out  and  the  record  of  every  man 
of  the  crew  was  looked  into  with  vigorous  scrutiny. 
So  I  could  see  no  loophole  unguarded.  But  the  past 
was  an  argument  which  set  logic  at  naught.  If  such 
things  could  be  as  that  which  had  happened  a  month 

[108] 


EAST    OF    NANTUCKET 

ago  in  Cameron's  dressing  room,  how  much  further 
might  the  inexplicable  carry?  Of  what  use  were  pre- 
cautions against  an  enemy  who  with  apparent  ease 
calmly  defied  all  natural  laws? 

All  the  morning  my  thoughts  had  been  running 
in  this  line.  Foolish  thoughts  they  must  seem  to  one 
who  reads  of  them ;  worthy  only  to  be  classed  with  the 
idle  superstitious  fears  of  young  girls  and  old  women, 
and  impossible  to  a  well-balanced,  clear-headed  man 
of  twenty-nine.  It  may  be  that  I  was  not  well- 
balanced  and  clear-headed.  And  yet  the  sequel  would 
tend  rather  to  a  contrary  conclusion. 

Cameron  was  still  reading  the  Herald,  and  I  sat 
with  a  pair  of  binoculars  at  my  eyes  sweeping  the 
waters  for  the  trailing  smoke  of  a  liner  or  some  object 
of  lesser  interest. 

Presently  the  silence  was  broken  by  my  companion. 

"I  see,"  he  began,  dropping  the  paper  to  his  knees, 
"that  China  is  really  in  earnest  in  her  anti-opium 
campaign.  Two  Peking  officials  have  died  from  the 
effects  of  a  too-hasty  breaking  of  the  habit.  Men  do 
not  die  in  the  attempt  to  obey  mere  paper  reforms. 
The  Chinese  are  a  wonderful  old  people,  Clyde." 

I  lowered  my  glasses,  all  at  once  interested. 

"You  Ve  been  in  China,  of  course?"  I  asked. 

"No,  I  have  n't,"  was  his  answer.  "I  Ve  always 

[109] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

meant  to  go;  but  when  I  was  nearest,  ill  news  drew 
me  home;  and  so  I  never  got  closer  than  Yokohama 
on  one  side,  and  Srinagar,  in  Kashmir,  on  the  other." 

"You  Ve  seen  something  of  them  in  this  country,  I 
suppose?" 

"No,  very  little.  I  attended  a  dinner  once  at  which 
Li  Hung  Chang  was  the  guest  of  honor ;  and  I  Ve 
eaten  chop  suey  in  one  of  those  Chinese  eating  palaces 
they  have  in  Chicago.  That 's  about  the  extent  of  my 
personal  Chinese  experience.  But  I  have  always 
been  interested  in  the  country  and  its  people.  I  have 
read  about  everything  that  has  been  published  on  the 
subject.  By  the  way,  did  they  ever  find  out  who 
killed  that  boy  of  Murphy's?" 

"Not  yet,"  I  answered.  "They  Ve  had  some  of  his 
own  kind  under  surveillance,  but  no  more  arrests  have 
been  made." 

"Murphy  was  released?" 

"Yes." 

He  took  up  his  paper  again  and  once  more  I  ap- 
plied myself  to  sea-gazing. 

Far  away  to  the  northeast  I  made  out  what  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  a  sea-going  tug  or  pilot  boat, 
steaming,  I  thought,  with  rather  unusual  speed  for 
a  vessel  of  her  class.  It  was  not  much  of  a  discovery, 
but  the  waters  had  been  very  barren  that  morning, 

[no] 


EAST    OF    NANTUCKET 

especially  for  the  last  two  hours,  and  insignificant  as 
this  object  was  I  felt  in  a  manner  rewarded  for  my 
vigil. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  had  dipped  out  of  sight  and 
I  was  busy  in  an  effort  to  pick  her  up  again,  when  a 
cry  from  the  look-out  forward  directed  my  attention 
to  a  floating  speck  possibly  two  miles  or  more  ahead, 
and  not  more  than  a  point  off  our  course. 

"Come,"  I  said  to  Cameron,  "let 's  go  up  on  the 
bridge  and  have  a  look!" 

"And  have  our  trouble  for  our  pains?"  he  returned, 
incredulously.  "It 's  probably  some  bit  of  wreckage, 
a  box  or  a  cask." 

"Very  well,"  I  agreed,  starting  off  alone.  "Even 
a  box  or  a  cask  is  worth  while  as  a  variation." 

When  on  nearer  approach  the  drifting  object 
proved  to  be  a  fisherman's  dory,  with  a  man,  either 
dead  or  unconscious,  plainly  discernible  in  the  bottom, 
I  should  hardly  have  been  human  had  I  not  experi- 
enced a  degree  of  satisfaction  over  Cameron's  failure 
as  a  prophet.  That,  however,  was  the  least  abiding 
of  my  sensations.  In  an  instant  it  had  given  way  to 
anxiety  concerning  the  boat's  occupant  and  interest 
in  the  business-like  manner  in  which  MacLeod,  the 
stocky  young  executive  officer  of  the  Sibylla,  was  pre- 
paring to  pick  up  our  find. 

[in] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

The  engine  room  had  been  signalled  half-speed 
ahead,  and  already  a  sailor  with  a  coil  of  rope  in  hand 
was  stationed  at  the  forward  lee  gangway.  I  have 
frequently  seen  river  pilots  make  landings  that  were 
marvels  of  clever  calculation,  but  I  never  saw  any 
steering  more  accurately  gauged  than  that  by  which 
MacLeod,  here  in  the  open  sea,  with  the  precarious 
swell  and  surge  of  ocean  to  combat,  brought  the  yacht 
gliding  within  a  bare  three  inches  of  the  rolling  dory's 
bow. 

I  was  leaning  over  the  rail  as  we  came  thus  upon 
the  castaway,  and  saw  clearly  enough  for  just  a  mo- 
ment the  huddled  creature  in  oilskins,  silent  and 
motionless  in  the  stern,  with  closed  eyes  and  wet  dark 
hair  matted  upon  his  forehead.  Then  a  sailor,  drop- 
ping lightly  into  the  boat,  shut  off  my  view  for  a 
little.  There  was  a  whir  of  flung  line;  an  exchange 
of  quick-spoken,  and  to  me  unintelligible  words,  be- 
tween the  sailor  in  the  dory  and  a  sailor  standing 
beside  me  on  the  yacht's  deck;  and  then,  the  line 
was  taut  and  straining,  and  the  dory,  which  had 
sheered  off  astern,  was  being  brought  up  slowly 
alongside. 

Now,  I  realized  for  the  first  time  that  our  engines 
had  stopped  and  that,  save  for  the  roll,  we  were 
almost  stationary. 

[112] 


EAST    OF    NAN  TUCKET 

They  were  lifting  the  fisherman  aboard  when  Cam- 
eron, at  length  aroused  by  the  unusual,  strolled  for- 
ward and  joined  me. 

"There  's  your  bit  of  wreckage,"  I  observed,  smil- 
ing. 

"Poor  devil !"  he  exclaimed,  sympathetically.  "He 
seems  more  dead  than  alive." 

"He 's  breathing,  sir,"  announced  Brandon,  the 
first  officer,  "and  not  much  more.  We  '11  take  him 
below,  and  see  what  can  be  done  for  him,  sir." 

He  appeared  to  be  about  forty  years  of  age,  a 
somewhat  shrunken,  weather-beaten  creature,  with 
face  deeply  lined  and  half  hidden  behind  possibly  a 
week's  growth  of  dark  beard.  It  is  not  easy  to  read 
a  man  with  his  eyes  closed,  but  I  was  far  from  pre- 
possessed by  what  of  this  fellow's  features  was  on 
view.  Ordinarily  I  should  have  given  him  scant  heed, 
but  to-day  was  no  ordinary  day,  and  my  suspicions 
were  superactive.  Even  the  most  trivial  occurrences 
took  on  significance.  And  this  was  not  a  trivial  oc- 
currence. Certainly  it  was  not  usual.  Fishermen 
blown  to  sea  in  storms  and  overcome  by  exposure, 
hunger,  and  thirst  were  common  enough,  perhaps,  but 
within  the  past  week  there  had  been  no  storm;  the 
weather  had  been  as  mild  as  that  of  June,  with  an 
August  day  or  two  thrown  in.  How  was  it  possible, 

8  [113] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

then,  for  this  bit  of  flotsam  to  have  come  where  it  was 
and  in  the  condition  it  was? 

To  Cameron  I  gave  no  hint  of  my  reasoning,  but 
to  Captain  MacLeod  I  put  the  question  without  hesi- 
tation. 

"It  does  seem  a  bit  odd,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he  returned, 
judicially,  "but  you  see  his  mast  and  sail  had  gone  by 
the  board  and  his  oars,  too.  It  looks  to  me,  sir,  as  if 
he  'd  been  run  down,  maybe,  and  nigh  swamped.  Of 
course  we  can't  tell  till  he  gets  his  senses  and  lets  us 
know." 

Though  this  put  the  matter  in  a  new  light,  it  did 
not  by  any  means  relieve  my  anxiety;  and  I  asked 
MacLeod  to  have  a  sharp  watch  kept  on  the  fellow, 
adding  that  I  would  come  to  him  later  for  anything 
he  might  learn.  I  took  care,  too,  to  caution  him  to 
make  no  mention  of  the  affair  in  the  presence  of 
Cameron. 

It  was  not  until  after  dinner  that  evening  that  I 
found  opportunity  again  to  question  the  captain.  I 
came  upon  him  in  his  stateroom,  a  comfortably  com- 
modious cabin,  far  forward  on  the  upper  deck.  On 
his  table  was  spread  a  chart,  over  which  he  was  bend- 
ing when  I  entered.  A  briarwood  was  gripped  firmly 
between  his  teeth  and  the  grateful  odor  of  clean  pipe 
smoke  greeted  me  as  I  entered. 

[114] 


EAST    OF    NANTUCKET 

"He  's  come  around,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he  informed  me, 
turning  about  in  his  swivel  chair,  "and  I  'm  just  try- 
ing to  check  up  some  of  his  statements  by  means  of 
this  chart  here,  and  our  weather  record." 

"And  how  do  they  check  so  far?"  I  asked,  a  little 
dubiously. 

"Quite  to  a  dot,  sir,"  was  his  answer.  "There's 
no  breakdown  anywhere,  so  far.  According  to  his 
story,  he  sailed  out  of  Gloucester  Harbor  on  Mon- 
day morning.  His  name  's  Peter  Johnson,  and  he 
lives  in  East  Gloucester.  He  says  the  wind  was 
strong  from  the  westward,  and  he  made  the  banks 
all  right  without  mishap.  But  about  noon,  the  wind 
died,  and  a  thick  fog  came  in  from  the  northeast,  chill 
and  sopping,  sir.  He  kept  moving  about,  and  finally 
in  the  thick  of  it  lost  his  bearings.  It  had  clouded 
over  and  after  a  little  it  began  to  rain.  He  made  a 
try  for  Gloucester  Harbor,  but  must  have  sailed  south- 
east instead  of  northwest.  Then  the  night  came 
down,  and  the  fog  was  like  a  dozen  blankets,  he  says. 
His  food  was  gone  and  most  of  his  water,  but  he  said 
he  'd  seen  worse  than  that  many  a  time,  and  just 
prayed  for  the  fog  to  lift  and  give  him  a  sight  of  the 
stars.  And  the  next  thing  that  happened  was  what 
I  suspected,  sir.  He  heard  a  steamer's  whistle.  He 
had  his  sheet  out  and  was  running  before  the  wind, 

[115] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

and  that  steamer  coming  upon  him  out  of  the  fog, 
caught  his  boom,  ripped  out  his  mast  and  nearly  cap- 
sized his  dory.  When  she  righted,  the  steamer's 
lights  were  fading  into  the  fog  again,  his  boat  was 
half  full  of  water  and  his  oars  were  washed  away. 
Well,  sir,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  he  must  have 
caught  a  current  that  carried  him  well  out  beyond 
Cape  Cod,  and  then  slewed  him  around  the  souther'- 
most  end  of  Nantucket  Island.  I  questioned  him 
about  lights  and  fog  signals,  and  making  due  allow- 
ance for  his  condition,  his  yarn  works  out  pretty 
straight.  He  'd  been  drifting  about  for  three  days 
when  we  picked  him  up  and  was  half  dead  of  thirst 
and  hunger.  But  he 's  come  around  better  than 
might  be  expected,  and — " 

And  then  I  interrupted  him. 

"Three  days  without  water?"  I  questioned. 

"And  without  food.     Yes,  sir." 

"When  did  he  tell  you  this  story?" 

"About  six  o'clock,  sir." 

"Could  a  starving  man  recover  that  quickly?" 

"He  might,  sir,"  MacLeod  answered.  "The  aver- 
age healthy  man  can  go  ten  days  without  food  or 
drink." 

"What  have  you  done  with  him?" 

"He  's  in  the  seaman's  quarters,  for'ard,  sir." 

[116] 


EAST    OF    NANTUCKET 

"See  that  he  's  kept  there,  Mr.  MacLeod,"  I  told 
him.  "I  'd  feel  better  if  you  put  a  watch  on  him  to- 
night. To-morrow  we  '11  run  in  to  Gloucester  and 
look  up  his  people  and  friends." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

"Thank  you." 

I  thought  of  having  a  look  at  Peter  Johnson,  my- 
self, for  I  was  somewhat  curious  to  study  that  face 
again  when  it  was  sentient,  and  had  its  eyes  open, 
but  on  second  thought  I  decided  to  wait  until  morn- 
ing. It  seemed  silly  to  suspect  this  seemingly  honest 
but  unfortunate  fisherman. 

We  had  not  been  speeding  so  well  during  the  after- 
noon; there  was  some  trouble  reported  from  the  en- 
gine room,  and  it  was  a  question  whether  we  had  made 
over  fifteen  knots  an  hour  since  two  o'clock.  I  know 
that  at  ten  o'clock  that  night,  when  the  moon  went 
down,  we  were  somewhere  east  of  Nantucket,  and 
directly  in  the  path  of  the  transatlantic  liners. 

The  night  was  balmy  as  a  night  in  Springtime, 
and  Cameron  and  I  in  light  overcoats  sat  on  the  after- 
deck,  watching  the  moon  slide  slowly  below  the  dark 
horizon  line.  Our  chairs  were  close  together,  facing 
the  lee  rail;  his  the  farther  astern.  We  talked  of 
many  things,  I  remember.  He  was  always  interested 
in  my  work,  and  especially  in  my  ambitions  to  make 

[H7] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

The  Week  a  power  for  national  good ;  and,  I  remem- 
ber that  we  discussed  several  projects  I  then  had  in 
mind  for  bringing  about  reform  in  high  places.  But 
the  subject  which  then  interested  me  most,  and  re- 
garding which  I  still  experienced  a  vague,  unreason- 
ing uneasiness,  he  had  avoided  throughout  the  day 
and  evening,  with  what  seemed  to  me  studied  intent. 

The  sudden  cessation  of  hostilities  on  the  part  of 
those  whom  he  had  been  given  every  reason  to  look 
upon  as  his  implacable  enemies,  was  certainly  strange 
enough  to  have  invited  endless  debate ;  and  I  marvelled 
that,  after  having  accepted  my  falsehood  as  truth, 
he  had  not  chosen  to  go  over  with  me  the  whole 
marvellously  perplexing  business. 

His  mind,  I  knew,  was  relieved  by  what  I  had  made 
him  believe,  or  he  would  not  now  be  the  man  he  was ; 
but  despite  that,  it  appeared  to  me,  it  would  be  most 
natural  for  him,  on  this  day  of  all  days  —  the  twenty- 
first  of  the  month  —  to  question,  at  least,  my  pre- 
viously emphatically  stated  conclusions. 

There  had  been  a  moment  of  silence  between  us, 
and  these  reflections  were  dominant  with  me,  as  six 
bells,  ringing  out  musically,  announced  that  midnight 
was  but  an  hour  distant.  At  that  instant,  while  in 
time  to  the  bell's  strokes,  there  echoed  in  my  brain 
the  words:  "Know  then,  that  before  the  morning 

[us] 


EAST    OF    NANTUCKET 

of  the  eighth  day  hence, — "  Cameron,  lowering  his 
cigar,  turned  to  me  with : 

"Clyde,  I  wonder  if  you  have  forgotten  what  day 
this  is!" 

I  don't  know  why,  coming  at  just  that  particular 
juncture,  the  question  should  be  more  upsetting  than 
if  it  had  come  at  some  other  time  of  day,  but  I  know 
it  seemed  so  to  me. 

For  a  little  space  my  tongue  refused  its  office. 
There  was  a  lump  in  my  throat  which  demanded  to 
be  swallowed,  and  I  made  a  pretence  of  coughing  to 
hide  my  plight.  At  length  I  answered,  a  bit  lamely : 

"No,  I  have  n't  forgotten.  It 's  Wednesday,  the 
twenty-first  of  October." 

He  returned  his  cigar  to  his  lips  and  smoked  in 
silence  for  a  full  minute.  Then,  he  said,  quietly: 

"It 's  seven  days  since  that  empty  envelope  came." 

"Yes,"  I  returned. 

There  was  another  slight  pause  and  he  went  on: 

"I  have  been  thinking  that  possibly  you  were 
wrong  about  the  significance  of  that  empty  envelope. 
Possibly  those  enigmatical  persons  intended  that 
absence  of  a  definite  threat  to  imply  the  inconceivably 
terrible." 

Now  that  he  had  started  to  talk  about  it,  I 
wished  that  he  had  continued  his  silence.  I  could  not 

[119] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

understand  how  I  had  convinced  him  before,  knowing 
all  the  while  that  I  was  without  truth  to  support  me. 
Certainly,  now,  pervaded  as  I  was  with  that  grim 
disquietude,  it  would  be  even  more  difficult  to  carry 
conviction  with  my  words. 

"Whatever  they  intended,"  I  ventured,  yielding 
a  fraction  of  a  point,  "it  seems  to  me  that  they  '11  have 
some  difficulty  in  carrying  it  out.  There  are  no  por- 
traits here  to  mutilate  and  no  mirrors  to  smash.  For 
the  previous  performances  there  must  be  some  more 
or  less  simple  explanation.  Neither  you  nor  I  be- 
lieve in  the  supernatural;  therefore  the  things  that 
happened  at  Cragholt  were  brought  about  by  natural 
means,  seemingly  inexplicable  as  they  were.  Now 
no  natural  means  can  be  brought  to  bear  to  perform 
any  such  legerdemain  on  this  yacht.  You  know  that. 
There  's  not  a  man  here,  except  that  poor  old  fisher- 
man, that  we  don't  know  all  and  everything  about. 
So,  I  say,  no  matter  what  they  planned ;  this  time  they 
are  outwitted."  And  even  as  I  said  it,  I  saw  clearly 
before  my  vision  those  words:  "Say  not  Heaven  is 
high  above!  Heaven  ascends  and  descends  about  our 
deeds,  daily  inspecting  us  wheresoever  we  are" 

"Then  you  agree  with  me?  You  think  something 
may  have  been  planned?" 

"I  would  n't  pretend  to  interpret  their  symbolism," 

[120] 


I  answered,  evasively.  "The  empty  envelope  im- 
pressed me  as  synonymous  with  saying,  'Nothing 
more  at  present !'  Even  now  I  think  that  if  they  had 
meant  to  continue  they  would  have  said  so.  I  'm  al- 
most sure  they  would." 

I  was  quite  sure,  of  course,  but  I  dared  not  say 
so. 

Cameron  smoked  on  quietly  for  a  while  in  a  rumina- 
tive mood.  Eventually  he  threw  the  end  of  his  cigar 
over  the  rail,  and  leaned  forward. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  perplexedly.  "I  don't 
know." 

This  I  hoped  was  to  be  the  end  of  the  matter,  for 
to-night  at  least;  but  presently  he  began  to  talk  of 
those  first  two  letters,  to  conjecture,  to  wonder,  to 
dissect  phrases,  to  dig  out  subtleties  of  meaning  from 
euphemistic  expressions.  And  then  I  knew  that  he 
had  every  word  memorized,  just  as  I  had. 

Seven  bells  had  struck  and  we  were  still  talking. 
But  now  and  then  there  were  pauses  in  our  converse 
—  intervals  of  silence  of  varying  length  —  during 
which  I  sat  with  my  gaze  stretching  out  over  the  black 
waters  and  my  hearing  strained  for  any  unusual 
sound.  More  than  once  during  the  evening  I  thought 
I  had  detected  far  off  the  pounding  note  of  a  motor 
boat's  exhaust,  but  had  put  the  notion  aside  as  too 

[121] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

improbable  for  entertainment.  Now,  faintly,  I 
seemed  to  hear  it  again ;  not  so  distant,  but  muffled. 

I  got  up  and  stood  close  to  the  rail,  and  listened 
with  ear  bent.  Then  I  determined  to  go  to  my  cabin 
for  a  night  glass  which  I  had  included  among  my 
traps.  But  at  that  moment  the  sound,  which  I  had 
made  sure  of,  ceased,  and  I  stood  a  second  or  two 
longer,  expecting  it  to  resume. 

Altogether  it  was  not  over  a  minute  or  two  that 
I  stood  there.  It  seemed  much  less  than  that.  Then 
I  turned  with  a  question  for  Cameron.  I  wondered 
whether  he  had  heard  the  sound  too. 

"I  say,  Cam — "  I  began,  and  stopped,  startled, 
with  his  name  half  uttered. 

His  chair  was  empty.  He  was  not  on  the  deck. 
I  ran  to  the  saloon.  He  was  not  there.  I  flung  open 
the  door  of  his  stateroom.  He  was  not  there,  either. 
I  had  the  yacht  searched  for  him.  He  was  not  on  the 
yacht. 


[122] 


CHAPTER  IX 

A   CRAFT    WITHOUT   LIGHTS 

/COMPOSURE  is  second  nature  with  me.  I  claim 
no  credit  for  it;  it  is  a  matter  of  temperament 
rather  than  cultivation.  But  now  my  temperament 
was  all  awry,  and  my  composure  fled  me.  I  was  ex- 
cited. More  than  that,  I  was  frantic,  distracted, 
rattled.  I  wanted  to  do  a  dozen  things  at  once;  to 
get  answers  to  a  score  of  questions  in  a  single  moment. 
And  the  consequence  may  be  imagined.  For  five 
—  ten  minutes,  nothing  was  done  whatever.  Then 
the  search-light  was  got  into  play,  sweeping  the 
waters  on  all  sides,  far  and  near;  but  with  paltry  re- 
sult. Five  or  six  miles  astern  we  made  out  a  power 
boat,  similar  to  that  which  I  had  seen  through  the 
glass  earlier  in  the  day.  To  the  eastward  a  steamer 
with  two  funnels  was  just  coming  into  range.  The 
white  sails  of  a  coasting  schooner  showed  to  west- 
ward. Trailing  in  our  wake  was  our  squalid  salvage, 
the  dory  of  the  fisherman. 

MacLeod,  trained  to  coolness,  retained  his  wits. 
Systematically  he  set  to  work.     Likely  and  unlikely 

[123] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

places  aboard  the  yacht  were  looked  into.  Before 
I  knew  what  he  was  about,  we  were  going  back  over 
the  way  we  had  come  with  the  search-light  swinging 
in  a  circle  and  a  half-dozen  sharp-eyed  seamen  scan- 
ning every  square  foot  of  rolling  wave. 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  I  kept  repeating  aloud, 
with  senseless  iteration.  "I  can't  understand  it." 

I  was  standing  alone,  well  forward,  leaning  over 
the  rail.  Presently  MacLeod  laid  a  hand  on  my 
shoulder. 

"We  can't  do  anything  more  than  we  are  doing, 
Mr.  Clyde,"  he  said  in  his  matter-of-fact  way.  "For 
my  part,  I  can't  understand  it,  either;  but  since  Mr. 
Cameron  's  nof  aboard,  there  's  only  one  conclusion, 
and  that  is  that  he  's  overboard.  And  since  there  was 
no  one  interested  in  throwing  him  there,  then  it  seems 
very  clear  that  he  must  have  jumped." 

"Jumped!"  I  cried,  in  irritation.  "My  God,  man! 
Don't  I  tell  you  that  I  was  not  three  feet  away  from 
him,  and  only  for  a  minute  or  two?  How  could  he 
have  jumped  without  my  hearing  him?  How  could 
he  even  have  got  out  of  his  chair,  without  my  hearing 
him?" 

The  captain  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

"There  's  no  other  explanation,"  he  decided,  con- 
clusively. 

[124] 


A    CRAFT    WITHOUT    LIGHTS 

"You  mean  he  committed  suicide?" 

"Call  it  what  you  like,  sir." 

"But  there  was  no  reason  for  him  to  do  such  a 
thing,"  I  objected. 

"I  understand  he  's  been  pretty  ill,  sir." 

"He  was  ill,  yes.  But  he  was  on  the  road  to  re- 
covery." And  then,  with  the  realization  that  I  was 
speaking  of  Cameron  in  the  past  tense,  as  though  it 
were  already  settled  that  I  should  never  see  him  alive 
again,  a  shiver  of  horror  swept  over  me.  I  know 
MacLeod  observed  it,  for  he  said: 

"There  's  been  a  drop  in  the  temperature,  in  the 
last  half-hour.  It  '11  be  more  comfortable  in  my 
cabin,  sir,  if  you  don't  mind  coming  in,  and  talking 
the  thing  over  a  bit." 

"Good  Heavens,  MacLeod,"  I  exclaimed,  turning 
on  him  with  nervous  savagery,  "do  you  expect  me  to 
sit  down  and  talk  calmly  at  such  a  moment  ?  I  can't. 
It 's  all  I  can  do  to  stand  still  here,  for  a  minute  at 
a  time.  I  feel  I  must  do  something.  It 's  torture 
to  have  one's  hands  tied  this  way." 

"I  think  I  know  how  you  feel,  sir.  But  walking 
the  deck  will  do  no  good,  and  if  you  could  calm  your- 
self enough  to  talk  it  over  quietly,  we  might  get  down 
to  something  that  would  guide  us,  so  to  speak." 

"Guide  us?"  I  repeated. 

[125] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

"Yes,  sir.  It 's  not  impossible,  you  know,  sir,  that 
when  he  went  overboard  he  was  picked  up." 

The  light  from  his  cabin  porthole  illuminated  us 
both,  and  now  as  he  looked  at  me  he  must  have  seen 
my  perplexity. 

"You  said  yourself,  sir,"  he  explained,  "that  you 
thought  you  heard  the  exhaust  of  some  sort  o'  craft 
not  far  away." 

It  was  this  reminder,  I  think,  which  brought  back 
my  wool-gathering  wits  and  steadied  me  to  a  percep- 
tion of  the  real  importance  of  the  captain's  plea.  Of 
one  thing,  at  least,  I  was  assured :  Cameron  was  not  a 
suicide.  How  he  could  have  gone  over  the  taffrail 
without  my  seeing  or  hearing  him,  I  should  never  be 
able  to  understand.  But  gone  he  was,  and  it  lay  upon 
me  to  discover  by  whose  assistance  this  marvellous 
disappearance  was  accomplished.  And  so  it  came 
about  that,  controlling  my  futile  unrest,  I  was  pres- 
ently seated  in  MacLeod's  swivel  chair,  while  he,  from 
a  place  on  the  side  of  his  berth,  fired  pointed  questions 
at  me,  which  I  either  answered  as  best  I  could  or  re- 
turned in  kind. 

"Now  maybe  it 's  none  of  my  business,  Mr.  Clyde, 
but  in  view  of  to-night's  occurrence  I  think  it 's  per- 
tinent to  know  why  there  was  such  a  thorough  inspec- 
tion of  the  Sibylla  before  we  sailed,  and  such  a  lot 

[126] 


A    CRAFT    WITHOUT    LIGHTS 

of  caution  regarding  the  crew."  That  was  the  first 
of  his  volley,  and  for  a  moment  it  staggered  me.  I 
recognized,  however,  that  this  was  not  a  time  for 
quibbling,  and  as  MacLeod  had  been  for  years  a 
staunch  soldier  in  Cameron's  army  of  employees,  I  saw 
no  harm  in  letting  him  know  the  truth. 

"I  '11  tell  you,"  I  returned,  frankly,  "but  it 's  not 
to  go  any  further.  In  the  past  nine  weeks  Mr. 
Cameron  has  been  receiving  a  series  of  threatening 
anonymous  letters.  The  last  one  came  a  week  ago 
to-day;  and  in  it  this  was  named  as  the  date  for  the 
climax." 

"Climax?"  he  repeated,  questioningly. 

"Yes.  To-day,  the  letter  stated,  Mr.  Cameron 
would  disappear." 

The  calm,  phlegmatic  young  captain  did  not  start. 
He  simply  narrowed  his  eyes  in  thought. 

"That 's  odd,"  he  said,  gravely,  "damned  odd." 
And  then,  after  a  second's  consideration,  he  asked: 
"Was  that  —  but  of  course  it  was  —  why  he  took  his 
cruise?" 

"No,"  I  told  him.  "That  was  not  his  reason; 
though  it  was  mine." 

I  did  not  mean  to  be  enigmatic,  but  I  suppose  I 
was,  for  MacLeod  showed  plainly  enough  that  he 
failed  to  understand. 

[127] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"You  see,"  I  went  on,  in  elucidation,  "Mr.  Cameron 
did  not  know  about  this  last  threat.  He  was  ill  when 
the  letter  came,  and  we  kept  it  from  him." 

It  was  evident  to  me  that  the  captain  disapproved, 
but  he  held  his  peace. 

"What  were  the  previous  threats?"  he  asked,  pres- 
ently. 

"Nothing  definite,"  I  answered.  "Simply  that  on 
certain  fixed  days  the  writers  would  demonstrate  their 
power." 

"And  did  they?" 

"Most  marvellously." 

Again  MacLeod  was  silent  for  a  space. 

"Under  the  circumstances,  Mr.  Clyde,  don't  you 
think  it  would  have  been  better  if  you  'd  told  me  about 
this?" 

"Mr.  Cameron  was  very  anxious  that  no  one  should 
know." 

The  captain  compassed  his  right  knee  with  his 
locked  hands. 

"All  the  same,"  he  said,  "he  'd  never  have  been 
spirited  off  this  yacht  if  I  'd  a'  known  what  was  in 
the  wind." 

This  statement  annoyed  me,  and  I  resented  it. 

"What  could  you  have  done?"  I  asked.  "I  was 
with  him  almost  continuously." 

[128] 


A    CRAFT    WITHOUT    LIGHTS 

There  came  a  strange,  half-meditative,  half -bold 
look  in  the  man's  eyes,  and  I  was  wondering  what  it 
portended,  when,  quite  ignoring  my  question,  he  be- 
gan speaking: 

"You  see  there  ought  n't  to  be  any  misunderstand- 
ing between  you  and  me,  sir.  This  is  too  serious  a 
business  to  be  bungled  because  I  am  only  captain  of 
this  yacht  and  you  are  the  owner's  friend.  So,  if  I 
speak  plainly,  sir,  you  '11  understand  why,  and  not 
think  me  disrespectful." 

I  smiled  to  reassure  him,  still  puzzled,  and  added: 

"Go  straight  ahead,  Captain.  You  are  perfectly 
right." 

"Well,"  he  began,  "I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Clyde. 
Your  story,  as  you  told  it  to  me,  has  some  weak  points 
in  it.  You  say,  for  instance,  that  you  were  with  Mr. 
Cameron  almost  continuously.  Now  I  'm  not  men- 
tioning the  little  while  you  were  in  here,  early  in  the 
evening,  but  during  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  be- 
fore you  gave  the  alarm,  you  weren't  with  him, 
either." 

I  stared  at  the  speaker  for  an  instant  in  absolute 
dumb  amaze. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  say  that,"  I  said,  at  length, 
more  hurt  than  angered.  "I  told  you  that  from  the 
moment  I  last  spoke  to  him,  seated  beside  him  there 
•  [129] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

on  the  after-deck,  until  I  turned  from  the  rail  and 
found  him  gone,  not  more  than  two  minutes  elapsed. 
And  that  was  God's  truth." 

"You  said  you  were  listening  for  what  you  thought 
sounded  like  a  motor  boat,  did  n't  you?" 

"I  did." 

"And  you  were  leaning  over  the  taffrail,  looking 
for  it,  were  n't  you?" 

"I  was." 

"But  you  did  n't  see  it?" 

"No,  I  did  n't  see  it ;  and  I  could  n't  hear  it  after 
the  first  few  seconds." 

The  captain  had  fixed  a  gaze  on  me  that  seemed 
aimed  to  penetrate  to  my  soul's  fibre.  After  my  an- 
swer he  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  he  said: 

"Where  were  you,  Mr.  Clyde,  when  that  boat, — 
motor,  tug,  or  whatever  she  was  —  crossed  within  ten 
feet  of  the  dory  we  are  towing?" 

Had  he  struck  me  in  the  face  I  could  not  have  been 
more  dumfounded. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  were  the  only  words  that 
came  to  me. 

"I  mean  that  the  craft  you  have  been  talking  about 
came  up  and  went  astern  of  us,  ten  or  twelve  minutes 
before  you  gave  the  alarm  that  Mr.  Cameron  had 
vanished  under  your  eyes.  I  was  on  the  bridge  and 

[130] 


A    CRAFT    WITHOUT    LIGHTS 

saw  it  myself  —  just  a  black  shape,  without  lights, 
and  her  exhaust  muffled,  just  as  you  say.  You  tell 
me  that  you  and  Mr.  Cameron  had  been  sitting  there 
for  three  hours,  at  least;  that  you  heard  seven  bells 
strike;  that  it  was  not  more  than  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes  after  this  that  you  got  up  and  went  to  the 
rail,  and  that  you  only  stood  there  two  minutes." 

"I  told  you  all  of  that,  and  every  word  is  the  truth," 
I  insisted,  vehemently. 

"And  yet,"  he  retorted  accusingly,  "and  yet  —  eight 
bells  had  struck  before  you  gave  the  alarm." 

I  had  not  thought  of  the  time.  In  my  panic  it  had 
not  occurred  to  me  of  course  to  ascertain  the  hour 
and  minute.  But  Captain  MacLeod  knew.  At  sea 
they  work  by  the  clock.  At  eight  bells  the  watch  had 
changed. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  I  exclaimed  rising,  "you  cer- 
tainly cannot  for  a  moment  suspect  me  of  complicity." 

He  stood  up,  too;  stolid,  imperturbable. 

"I  just  want  those  things  explained,  that 's  all," 
was  his  reply. 

"And  I  can't  explain  them,"  I  told  him,  candidly. 
"You  say  you  saw  the  boat.  I  did  n't.  You  say  it 
was  after  midnight  when  I  came  to  you.  It  may 
have  been.  I  don't  know.  It  may  have  been  nearer 
twelve,  when  I  went  to  the  rail.  My  impression  is 

[131] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

that  it  was  not.  I  '11  admit  it  is  mysterious.  The 
whole  awful  thing  is  mysterious." 

My  candor  seemed  to  relieve  him. 

"Well,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he  said,  with  equal  sincerity, 
"maybe  I  was  too  outspoken,  but  I  wanted  to  know 
what  you  'd  say  to  the  points  that  were  puzzling  me." 

"You  did  perfectly  right,"  I  told  him.  "As  you 
have  said,  there  must  be  no  secrets  between  us."  And 
then,  as  I  resumed  my  seat,  I  asked:  "What  about 
the  fisherman?  He  has  n't  evaded  his  guard,  has  he?" 

MacLeod  sat  down  again  too. 

"He  's  in  where  I  put  him,  now,"  he  answered,  with 
a  shade  of  reluctance,  "but  —  I  'm  not  sure;  it 's  al- 
most as  mysterious  as  the  other  —  but  I  could  have 
sworn  I  saw  him  come  up  that  for'ard  hatchway  and 
go  sneaking  aft  while  I  was  on  the  bridge." 

"When  was  that?"  I  pressed,  eagerly. 

"About  a  quarter  of  twelve." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Nothing,  just  then.  I  waited.  And  while  I  was 
waiting  I  saw  that  black,  spooky  craft  come  out  of 
the  dark,  and  go  skimming  astern  of  us.  A  little 
after  eight  bells  I  came  down  from  the  bridge, —  I 
stopped  there  for  just  a  minute  to  have  a  word  with 
Brandon  when  he  came  up, —  and  then  I  went  myself 
to  look  after  Johnson  and  the  man  I  'd  set  to  watch 

[132] 


A    CRAFT    WITHOUT    LIGHTS 

him.  The  fisherman  was  in  a  bunk,  sound  asleep, 
and  the  man  swore  he  had  been  lying  there  snoring, 
for  the  past  two  hours.  'Who  was  it  came  up  the 
ladder  twenty  minutes  ago?'  I  asked.  He  looked  at 
me  as  if  he  thought  I  was  gone  suddenly  loony.  'Be- 
fore the  watch  changed?'  he  asked.  I  nodded.  'Not 
a  soul  came  or  went,'  he  said,  'since  I  been  here.' ' 

"And  the  boat  without  lights?"  I  questioned.  "Did 
you  inquire  about  her?  Who  else  saw  her?" 

"I  asked  the  lookouts;  but  —  well,  no,  sir, —  and 
that 's  very  strange  to  me, —  neither  of  them  saw  her. 
I  gave  them  both  a  rating.  If  they  were  n't  asleep 
I  don't  see  how  they  could  have  missed  her." 

The  thing  was  growing  more  and  more  baffling. 
MacLeod  was  the  last  man  to  be  accused  of  imagina- 
tive fancies.  He  was  thoroughly  in  earnest  in  what 
he  had  told  me ;  and  yet  for  neither  of  his  statements 
had  he  the  smallest  corroboration.  For  my  own  part 
I  was  sure  that,  at  the  time  he  mentioned,  no  vessel 
of  any  description  had  passed  anywhere  near  us. 

"What  did  you  make  the  craft  out  to  be?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  couldn't  say  exactly.  She  was  in 
sight  only  a  minute,  coming  in  range  of  our  own 
lights.  She  looked  more  like  a  tug  than  anything 
else ;  but  she  had  more  speed  than  any  tug  I  ever  saw. 
She  had  n't  the  lines  of  a  yacht." 

[133] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"She  wasn't  a  pilot  boat?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir.  New  York  pilots  don't  cruise  this  far 
east,  and  the  Boston  pilots  would  n't  be  so  far  away 
from  home  either." 

I  offered  the  captain  a  cigar,  which  he  declined, 
filling  his  pipe  in  preference.  When  I  had  lighted  a 
cigar  myself,  I  asked: 

"I  suppose  you  have  some  theory,  MacLeod.  You 
don't  seriously  think  it  was  suicide?" 

As  usual  he  was  slow  to  answer.  After  a  thought- 
ful second,  he  said: 

"I  'd  be  sorry  to  think  that,  Mr.  Clyde.  Taking 
into  consideration  what  you  told  me  about  the  threat, 
and  connecting  that  boat  with  it,  it  looks  — "  and  then 
he  paused,  thoughtful  again.  "It 's  not  in  possi- 
bility," he  went  on,  after  a  second,  "that  they  could 
have  plucked  him  off  with  a  line.  But  if  that  fellow 
I  saw  going  aft  —  Oh,  Lord,  no,  sir !  It 's  past  me 
to  see  a  way  out.  All  the  same,  we  are  keeping  that 
craft  in  sight,  and  if  we  can  only  get  thirty  knots  out 
of  the  Sibylla  again,  we  '11  find  out  what  she  is  and 
what  her  business  is,  before  morning." 


[184] 


CHAPTER  X 

A   WOMAN   OF  INTUITION 

TLL  tidings,  always  a  heavy  burden,  never  weighed 
more  heavily  on  any  one  than  on  me  that  dismal, 
rainy  Sunday  morning,  on  which  I  stepped  from  the 
Sibyllas  launch  to  the  stone  water  steps  of  Cragholt. 
For  two  days  we  had  searched  the  bays  and  inlets 
from  Provincetown  to  Plymouth  and  from  Siasconset 
to  Providence;  questioning  at  every  pier  and  landing 
stage ;  making  inquiry  in  every  town  and  hamlet ;  but 
without  a  thimbleful  of  profit  for  our  pains.  As 
that  black  craft,  with  dimmed  lights  and  muffled  en- 
gines, had  eluded  our  pursuit  on  the  night  of  Cam- 
eron's disappearance,  so  for  the  forty-eight  hours  suc- 
ceeding she  had  baffled  our  quest.  No  one  knew  her ; 
no  one  had  seen  her. 

As  for  that  shaken,  frayed,  pallid  fisherman,  Peter 
Johnson,  he  appeared  below,  rather  than  above,  sus- 
picion. If  my  knowledge  of  men  went  for  anything 
he  was  too  inferior  both  mentally  and  physically  to 
be  a  participant  in  any  such  plot  as  was  here  involved. 
He  seemed  to  me  wofully  weak  and  wasted,  and  with 

[135] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

as  little  brains  as  sinew.  So,  with  enough  money  for 
a  new  mast  and  sail,  we  had  put  him  and  his  dory 
ashore  at  our  first  landing,  and  had  forthwith  forgot- 
ten him. 

MacLeod  had  been  inclined  to  continue  the  search, 
but  I  argued  that  any  further  efforts  in  that  direc- 
tion would  be  only  a  waste  of  time.  The  craft  we 
were  looking  for  might  have  come  from  any  one  of 
a  thousand  places  and  returned  to  any  one  of  a  thou- 
sand more.  Some  more  effective,  general,  and  far- 
reaching  steps  must  be  taken,  I  held,  and  taken 
quickly.  Indeed  I  felt  now  that  to  keep  secret  longer 
the  conspiracy,  as  indicated  in  those  mystic  letters, 
would  be  little  short  of  criminal.  The  aid  of  the 
police  and  the  press  must  be  invoked  at  once,  and  noth- 
ing left  undone  to  trace  the  crime  to  its  source. 

But  my  first  and  most  onerous  task  was  to  acquaint 
Evelyn  Grayson  with  the  facts  as  I  knew  them. 
How  I  shrank  from  that  duty  is  beyond  anything  I 
can  put  into  words.  I  know  it  would  have  been  far 
easier  for  me  to  have  carried  her  definite  news  of  her 
uncle's  death.  What  I  had  to  tell  was  horrible  in  its 
stark  obscurity.  And  yet,  if  I  could  have  foreseen 
just  what  was  to  follow,  I  might  have  spared  myself 
a  goodly  share  of  distress. 

I  imagined  I  knew  Evelyn  Grayson,  before  this. 

[136] 


A    WOMAN    OF     INTUITION 

I  thought  I  had  sounded  the  profundities  of  her  for- 
titude and  courage  on  the  night  that  I  spread  before 
her  and  read  with  her  that  third  and  last  letter.  But 
my  fancy  did  her  an  injustice.  She  was  even  more 
of  a  woman  than  I  dreamed. 

Recently  I  chanced  upon  these  lines  by  Thomas 
Dunn  English  which  must  have  been  inspired  by  such 
a  one  as  she : 

So  much  is  clear, 

Though  little  dangers  they  may  fear, 
When  greater  perils  men  environ. 
Then  women  show  a  front  of  iron; 
And,  gentle  in  their  manner,  they 
Do  bold  things  in  a  quiet  way. 

Evelyn  Grayson  did  a  bold  thing  in  a  quiet  way 
that  morning.  I  have  not  yet  forgotten  how  marble 
white  she  was,  and  yet  how  bravely  she  came,  with 
springing  step  and  lifted  chin  and  fearless  eyes.  I  had 
waited  her  coming  in  the  music  room,  with  its  score  of 
reminders  of  happy  evenings  in  which  he  had  partici- 
pated. The  chair  he  usually  chose,  in  the  corner,  near 
the  great  bow  window  against  which  the  east  wind  was 
now  driving  the  rain  in  gusty  splashes,  took  on  a 
pathos  which  moved  me  to  weakness.  The  Baudelaire 
lyric,  spread  open-paged  upon  the  music  rack  of  the 
piano,  stirred  memories  scarcely  less  harrowing.  A 

[137] 


photograph,  an  ash  tray,  a  paper  knife,  all  common- 
place objects  of  themselves,  but  so  linked  to  him  by 
association,  became,  suddenly,  instruments  of  emo- 
tional torture. 

In  this  environment,  under  these  influences,  I  rose 
to  meet  her,  wordless.  Yet  my  expression  and  atti- 
tude must  have  spoken  loudly  enough  to  confirm  the 
dread  that  was  in  her  heart,  for  even  before  she  spoke 
I  was  sure  that  she  knew.  And  then  she  had  taken 
my  two  outstretched  hands  in  hers  and  raised  her 
brave  eyes  to  mine,  and  low-voiced,  but  sure  and 
tremorless,  was  saying: 

"I  feared  it,  Philip.  From  the  very  first,  I 
feared  it." 

And  when  I  had  told  her  all,  to  the  smallest  de- 
tail, it  was  as  though  she  were  the  man  and  I  the 
woman;  for  the  recital  had  been  for  me  a  very  pain- 
ful confession  of  my  own  incompetence,  and  its  con- 
clusion left  me  more  nervously  unstrung  than  at  any 
time  since  the  night  of  the  strange  catastrophe. 
With  what  heroic  fortitude  she  heard  the  narrative 
may  best  be  indicated  by  the  statement  that  through- 
out it  all  she  sat  calmly  attentive,  but  unquestioning, 
and  with  no  sign  of  emotion  beyond  her  continued 
pallor  and  a  recurrent  tensing  of  her  small  white 
hands.  At  the  end  I  leaned  forward  and  with  left 

[138] 


\ 


For  u  full  niimiti-  she  said  nothing. 


A    WOMAN    OF    INTUITION 

elbow  on  knee  rested  my  forehead  in  my  palm.  She 
sat  beside  me  on  the  same  settee;  and  now  she  drew 
closer,  and  laying  her  cool  right  hand  over  my  own 
disengaged  one,  began  stroking  my  hair  with  her 
left.  For  a  full  minute  she  said  nothing.  Then,  in 
soothing  accents: 

"I  am  glad  you  did  n't  find  the  boat.  That  means 
he  is  on  it.  If  you  had  found  it,  it  would  have  been 
some  ordinary  thing  having  no  connection  with  this 
affair,  whatever." 

It  was  odd  reasoning,  but  very  feminine,  and  in 
an  esoteric  way,  forceful. 

"But  you  made  one  mistake,  Philip,"  she  went  on. 
"You  should  not  have  let  that  fisherman,  Peter  John- 
son, go." 

At  this  I  raised  my  head  and  regarded  her  with 
something  like  astonishment. 

"He  was  one  of  them,"  she  explained  in  a  tone  of 
conviction. 

"How  can  you  say  that?"  I  asked,  a  little  nettled. 
It  annoyed  me  that  she  should  be  so  positive,  know- 
ing no  more  of  the  man  than  that  which  I  had  told 
her. 

"I  feel  it,"  she  answered.  And  that  was  all  the 
reason  she  could  give. 

I  had  not  expected  to  find  such  development  of 

[139] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

intuition  regarding  worldly  matters  in  one  so  young, 
and  so  fresh  from  conventual  seclusion.  And  then 
her  judgment  seemed  to  keep  pace  with  her  auguries; 
for  when  I  spoke  of  inviting  the  aid  of  detectives  and 
the  newspapers,  she  begged  me  to  reconsider. 

"I  am  afraid  for  him,"  she  pursued  gravely. 
"Publicity  might  mean  his  death.  If  they  discover 
they  are  being  sought,  they  may  murder  him.  Some- 
how, I  feel  he  is  still  alive;  and  so  we  must  do  noth- 
ing that  will  incite  them  to  further  violence." 

"But,"  I  returned,  conscious  of  the  force  of  her 
argument,  yet  failing  to  see  how  this  caution  could 
very  well  be  exercised,  "we  can't  find  him  without 
seeking." 

"No,  but  we  can  seek  him  in  secret.  The  news- 
papers must  not  tell  the  world." 

"The  police  would  of  course  tell  the  newspapers," 
I  added. 

"We  can  do  some  things,  without  the  police,"  was 
her  next  assertion.  "There  are  some  things  that  I 
can  do;  and  there  are  more  that  you  can  do."  She 
was  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  and  then:  "I  am  so 
sorry  about  Peter  Johnson!  You  should  never  have 
lost  sight  of  him." 

"We  gave  him  money  and  God  speed,"  I  reminded 
her. 

[140] 


A    WOMAN    OF    INTUITION 

"Captain  MacLeod  must  go  back  there,  where  you 
left  him.  Where  was  it?  Siasconset?  He  must 
trace  him.  His  trail  won't  lead  to  Gloucester,  I  'm 
sure  of  that." 

My  self-esteem  was  not  being  vigorously  stimulated 
by  the  young  lady  at  this  juncture.  Indeed,  I  was 
being  made  to  feel  more  and  more  my  strategical  in- 
feriority. 

"And  I,"  she  continued,  with  the  methodical  ex- 
pediency of  a  commander-in-chief,  so  curiously  in- 
apposite in  one  so  young  and  inexperienced  as  she; 
"and  I  shall  find  out  about  those  letters." 

"Find  out  what?"  I  asked  in  astonishment. 

"Find  out  what  manner  of  man  wrote  them,"  she 
amplified. 

"But  how  can  you?"  I  inquired.  "That  seems  a 
pretty  big  undertaking  of  itself,  for  one  so  small." 

"I  have  thought  of  a  way,"  she  declared,  non- 
committally. 

"And  what  am  I  to  do?"  was  my  next  question, 
feeling  miserably  small  beside  this  efficient  child. 

"You  must  give  me  the  letter  you  have,  and  help 
me  look  for  the  others." 

The  first  part  of  the  command  was  easy  enough  of 
obedience;  for  the  letter  was  in  my  pocket  at  the  mo- 
ment. But  my  assistance  in  searching  for  the  first 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

two  communications  was  more  energetic  than  success- 
ful. Together  we  ransacked  desks,  bureaus,  tables, 
closets,  trunks,  clothes.  Indeed,  every  possible  hid- 
ing place  both  at  Cragholt  and  on  the  Sibylla  was 
carefully  and  systematically  delved  into  and  exhausted 
without  reward.  Either  Cameron  had  destroyed  the 
letters,  or  he  had  them  on  his  person  when  he  vanished 
from  the  yacht. 

At  Evelyn's  request,  however,  I  wrote  copies  of 
those  two  strangely-couched,  malevolent  epistles,  as 
nearly  as  I  could  remember  them;  and  save,  perhaps, 
for  possibly  two  or  three  verbal  errors  they  were,  I 
think,  quite  accurate. 

"And  now,"  I  asked  again,  "what  am  I  to  do?" 

It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  I  was  leaving  her,  my 
car  waiting  in  the  sopping  driveway  to  carry  me  home. 

"You  are  not  to  worry  any  more  than  you  possibly 
can  help,"  she  told  me,  with  a  brave  little  smile,  "for 
we  are  going  to  succeed.  And  to-morrow  you  must 
go  to  your  office,  and  keep  very,  very  silent  about 
what  has  happened.  And  then  you  are  to  come  to 
me  again  in  the  evening,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  I  have 
learned." 

With  which  she  gave  me  her  hand  to  kiss,  in  the 
odd  little  French  way  she  had, —  a  way  that  could 
scarcely  have  been  a  part  of  her  convent  teaching. 

[142] 


A    WOMAN    OF    INTUITION 

As  I  come  to  review  these  matters  now,  it  seems 
singular  that  I  should  have  so  readily  consented  to 
be  guided  by  this  girl's  will  in  a  case  of  such  grave 
importance;  yet  I  cannot  but  believe  there  was  some- 
thing providential  both  in  her  assumption  of  leader- 
ship and  in  my  own  unquestioning  acquiescence.  For 
the  day  of  office  work  and  silence,  which  she  enjoined, 
was  exactly  what  I  needed  to  restore  my  nerves  to 
their  normal  tension.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  sort  of 
counter-irritant,  which  brought  me  up  standing,  with 
a  revived  self-confidence  and  recuperated  energy. 

So  when,  a  little  before  five  o'clock  that  afternoon, 
just  as  I  was  making  ready  to  run  for  my  train,  I 
heard  Evelyn's  voice  over  the  telephone,  I  was  fairly 
tingling  with  ardor  for  the  game;  and  her  request 
to  call  on  Professor  Griffin,  the  expert  in  Oriental 
literature,  who  occupied  a  chair  in  Columbia  College, 
and  lived  a  mile  or  more  back  from  the  Greenwich 
station,  was  a  welcome  call  to  action. 

Very  briefly  she  explained  that  she  had  seen  the 
professor  that  morning,  and  had  laid  before  him  the 
original  letter  and  my  copies  of  the  others,  and  that 
he  had  kindly  promised  to  make  a  careful  study  of 
them  and  acquaint  her  with  the  result  later  in  the  day. 
She  thought  it  better,  however,  that  I  should  call  upon 
him  for  his  conclusions,  she  said,  as  they  would  prob- 

[143] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

ably  be  verbal,  and  she  doubted  her  own  ability  to 
convey  them  to  me  with  entire  accuracy.  Of  course 
she  had  told  him  nothing  as  to  the  circumstances  sur- 
rounding the  letters.  As  they  bore  no  dates,  and 
were  unaddressed,  she  had  led  him  to  infer  that  they 
were  autographic  curiosities  belonging  to  her  uncle, 
in  which  we  were  all  three  interested. 

I  had  met  Professor  Griffin  on  several  occasions. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  contributed  articles  to  The  Week, 
and  while  we  were  scarcely  intimate,  we  were  on  terms 
of  friendly  acquaintanceship.  He  was  an  oldish, 
white-haired  gentleman,  of  rather  the  ascetic  type, 
with  long,  somewhat  peaked  face,  and  light,  watery 
blue  eyes,  which  seemed  to  bulge  behind  the  strong 
lenses  of  his  gold-bowed  spectacles. 

He  received  me  in  his  study,  a  spacious,  book-lined 
room  on  the  second  floor  of  his  old  Colonial  stone 
house. 

"I  have  been  deeply  interested,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he  be- 
gan, "in  the  autographs  and  copies  which  Miss  Gray- 
son  brought  to  me.  They  are  unique  specimens  of 
English  composition,  in  that  the  Oriental  influence  is 
so  clearly  demonstrated  throughout.  Do  you,  by  any 
chance,  know  where  Mr.  Cameron  obtained  them?" 

I  was  hardly  prepared  for  this  question,  but  I  an- 
swered as  promptly  as  possible  that  they  had  recently 

[144] 


A    WOMAN    OF    INTUITION 

come  into  my  friend's  possession,  I  believed,  but  from 
just  what  source  I  had  not  learned. 

The  three  sheets  lay  before  him  on  the  writing- 
shelf  of  his  old-fashioned  mahogany  secretary;  and 
now  he  took  up  one  of  the  copies,  holding  it  at  some 
distance  from  his  eyes,  as  though  his  glasses,  thick  as 
they  were,  were  not  as  powerful  as  his  sight  required. 

"The  three  writings,"  he  went  on,  in  the  tone  of  a 
class-room  lecturer,  "evidently  form  a  series,  of  which, 
I  take  it,  this  is  the  first." 

"The  one  which  says,  'Take  warning  of  what  shall 
happen  on  the  seventh  day'?"  I  queried. 

"Yes.  That  is  the  first.  The  other  of  the  copies, 
in  which  occurs  the  phrase  'once  more'  is,  of  course, 
the  second.  And  the  original  autograph  is  the  last." 

"Exactly,"  I  agreed.  It  seemed  to  me  that  all  this 
was  very  obvious,  but  in  courtesy  I  could  not  say  so. 

"All  three,"  he  continued,  sagely,  "begin,  as  you 
must  have  observed,  with  the  same  sentence,  'That 
which  you  have  wrought  shall  in  turn  be  wrought 
upon  you.'  That  is  a  quotation." 

"A  quotation!"  I  exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

"A  quotation  from  Mencius,  the  great  expositor  of 
Confucius,  who  lived  B.  c.  372  to  289.  In  the  orig- 
inal, a  word  meaning  'Beware'  precedes  the  warning, 
and  a  more  literal  translation  of  the  passage  would 
10  [145] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

be:  'Beware!  What  proceeds  from  you  will  return 
to  you  again.' ' 

It  seemed  to  me  that  this  was  taking  a  great  deal 
for  granted.  I  feared  that  the  professor,  like  many 
savants  who  specialize,  was  straining  the  fact  to  fit 
his  theory,  but  he  very  promptly  disabused  me. 

"The  supposition  that  the  words  are  a  paraphrase 
of  Mencius,"  he  explained,  "would  not  be  tenable,  per- 
haps,—  the  idea  is  not  anomalous, —  were  it  not  that 
we  find  running  through  the  series,  other  quotations 
that  are  unquestionably  of  Chinese  origin.  The  first 
letter,  for  example,  concludes  with:  'The  ways  of 
our  God  are  many.  On  the  righteous  He  showers 
blessings;  on  the  evil  He  pours  forth  misery.'  This 
is  from  the  Book  of  History,  or  fShu  King'  in  which 
are  the  documents  edited  by  Confucius  himself.  It 
usually  has  been  rendered  in  this  way :  'The  ways  of 
God  are  not  invariable.  On  the  good  doer  He  sends 
down  all  blessings,  and  on  the  evil  doer  He  sends  down 
all  miseries.'  That  is  the  more  exact  rendering.  And 
again,  in  the  second  letter  we  find  — "  He  paused  a 
moment,  taking  up  the  second  sheet,  and  focussing  his 
dim  eyes  upon  the  lines.  "We  find,"  he  went  on, 
"  'Fine  words  and  a  smiling  countenance  make  not 
virtue,'  which  is  from  the  Lunhii,  or  'Analects'  of 
Confucius,  in  which  the  views  and  maxims  of  the  Sage 

[146] 


A    WOMAN    OF    INTUITION 

are  retailed  by  his  disciples.  'Smiling  countenance* 
is  hardly  the  best  translation.  'Insinuating  appear- 
ance' is  more  nearly  the  English  equivalent,  and  I 
should  prefer  'are  rarely  connected,  or  associated,  with 
virtue'  to  'make  not  virtue/  ' 

"Those,  of  course,  are  unmistakably  translations," 
I  agreed. 

"And  so  are  the  concluding  sentences  of  the  third, 
the  autograph,  letter,"  he  assured  me.  '  'Say  not 
Heaven  is  high  above !  Heaven  ascends  and  descends 
about  our  deeds,  daily  inspecting  us,  wheresoever  we 
are.'  I  find  it  in  one  of  the  sacrificial  odes  of  Kau, 
and  it  is  the  best  rendered  of  all  the  excerpts." 

"So  your  conclusion  as  to  the  authorship  is — ?"  I 
queried. 

"Chinese,  undoubtedly,"  he  answered.  "These 
were  written,  I  should  say,  by  a  Chinaman,  educated, 
probably,  in  this  country.  His  English  is  the  Eng- 
lish of  an  educated  Oriental,  but  the  quotations  from 
Confucius  and  his  commentators  are  characteristic. 
With  the  average  Chinaman,  to  know  Confucius  is  to 
know  all;  what  he  said  is  all-sufficient;  what  he  did 
not  say  is  not  worth  saying.  Another  identifying 
feature  is  the  effort  to  make  afraid.  Their  religion 
is  fear." 

Having  concluded  his  exposition  Professor  Griffin 

[147] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

was  disposed  to  enter  upon  a  more  or  less  lengthy 
discourse  on  Chinese  character  and  literature  in  gen- 
eral. However  illuminative  this  might  have  been  un- 
der ordinary  conditions,  I  was  assuredly  in  no  mood 
to  listen  to  it  at  this  time.  The  information  he  had 
given  me,  while  it  merely  verified  suspicions  which  I 
had  held  from  the  first,  set  me  to  speculating  on  the 
individual  source  of  the  letters ;  and  with  so  modern  an 
instance  at  hand  I  was  naturally  disinclined  to  con- 
sider the  authorship  of  writings  dating  back  often  a 
thousand  years  and  more  beyond  the  Christian  era. 

With  what  grace  I  could,  therefore,  I  discouraged 
a  continuance  of  the  theme,  and  having  thanked  him 
most  heartily,  pocketed  the  notes  with  which  he  was 
good  enough  to  furnish  me,  and  prepared  to  depart. 
But  as  I  stood  at  his  study  door,  his  lean,  scholarly 
hand  resting  in  mine,  he  detained  me  for  a  final  word. 

"The  symbol!"  he  exclaimed,  his  pale  eyes  lighting 
at  the  recollection.  "We  forgot  the  symbol!" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  returned,  my  interest  revived,  "that 
silhouette  at  the  bottom." 

"It  is  unmistakably  Chinese,"  he  said.  "I  am  not 
very  familiar  with  the  symbolism  of  the  East,  not 
as  familiar  as  I  should  be,  possibly ;  but  Chinese  writ- 
ing, you  know,  in  its  origin,  is  picture  writing  with 
the  addition  of  a  limited  number  of  symbolical  and  con- 

[148] 


A    WOMAN    OF    INTUITION 

ventional  signs.  This  figure,  I  should  say,  repre- 
sents a  lorcha,  or  small  Chinese  coasting  junk,  and 
you  can  rest  assured  that  the  threats  contained  in 
the  letters  were  with  a  view  to  reparation  for  some 
crime  or  injury  connected  in  some  way  with  such  a 
vessel.  That  is  as  near  as  I  can  interpret  it.  But, 
if  you  would  like  to  know  more  —  if  you  would  like 
to  get  something  more  nearly  definite  —  I  can  refer 
you  to  one  who  can,  I  think,  give  you  the  informa- 
tion." 

"By  all  means,"  I  implored,  "I  shall  appreciate 
it  greatly." 

"An  authority  on  this  subject  is  living  not  very 
far  from  here.  He  spent  many  years  in  China,  is 
something  of  an  artist  himself,  and  made,  I  under- 
stand, a  study  of  Oriental  symbolism.  He  lives  at 
Cos  Cob,  and  his  name  is  — " 

"Murphy!"  I  interrupted,  as  a  flood  of  illumina- 
tion swept  over  me. 

"Philetus  Murphy.     Yes.     Do  you  know  him?" 

"I  have  met  him,"  I  returned  shortly. 

And  thanking  the  professor  once  more  I  hurried 
away,  with  a  course  of  action  already  shaping  in  my 
mind. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   CHINESE   MERCHANT 

T  T  was  while  Professor  Griffin  was  talking  of 
Chinese  characteristics  that  the  thought  of  little 
Mow  Chee  first  occurred  to  me.  The  professor  said 
something  about  the  average  Chinaman's  disinclina- 
tion to  speak  of  death,  directly,  and  how  he  invariably 
employed  some  euphemism.  The  phrase  "pass  from 
sight  of  men  into  torment"  the  professor  pointed  out 
as  an  illustration.  And  then  I  remembered  little  Mow 
Chee,  who  was  in  my  class  at  Yale,  and  how,  once,  in 
speaking  of  the  demise  of  a  fellow  classman,  he  had 
used  the  odd  expression,  "he  has  saluted  the  age," 
which  I  afterwards  learned  was  quite  a  common  form 
in  China. 

It  was  now  a  year  or  more  since  I  had  seen  Mow 
Chee,  but  I  recalled  that  at  our  last  meeting  I  had 
made  a  note  of  his  address ;  and  so  on  reaching  my  desk 
the  next  morning  I  looked  it  up.  Curiously  enough 
a  private  detective  agency  which  I  had  arranged  to 
consult  chanced  to  have  its  office  in  the  same  building 

[150] 


THE     CHINESE    MERCHANT 

on  lower  Broadway  as  the  Pacific  Transport  Com- 
pany, by  which  Mow  Chee  was  employed;  and  thus 
the  plan  which  had  been  shaping  mentally  the  previous 
afternoon,  as  I  hurried  away  from  Professor  Griffin's, 
was  very  readily  set  in  motion  before  noon  of  the  day 
following. 

In  the  evening  I  had  discussed  it  with  Evelyn; 
and  though  the  detective  feature  did  not  at  first  meet 
with  her  approval,  she  eventually  conceded  that  it  was 
a  necessary  part  of  the  project.  It  was  agreed,  how- 
ever, that  the  real  purpose  for  which  that  aid  was  in- 
voked should  not  be  divulged.  Philetus  Murphy  was 
to  be  shadowed  and  daily  reports  were  to  be  made  to 
me.  That  he  had  been  under  suspicion  of  brutally 
murdering  his  Chinese  servant  was  sufficient  reason 
for  the  proceeding,  and  to  the  detective  agency  I  gave 
no  hint  of  any  further  consideration. 

As  for  my  Celestial  classmate,  I  was  not  by  any 
means  sure  that  I  should  find  him  at  the  Pacific  Trans- 
port offices.  I  knew  that  for  some  time  China  had 
been  calling  upon  her  sons  of  Western  education  to 
return  to  their  mother  country  for  service,  and  I  feared 
that  little  Mow  Chee  might  already  be  Customs 
Taokai  of  Shantung,  or  some  other  imperial  province. 
But  my  misgivings  were  very  promptly  allayed;  for 
no  sooner  had  I  stepped  within  the  outer  office  than 

[151] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

he  saw  me,  and  came  hastily  forward,  with  a  smile 
of  greeting  on  his  square,  flattened,  yellow  face. 

His  desk  was  just  back  of  the  long  counter  which 
ran  the  length  of  the  room,  and  a  glance  at  its  piled 
contents  showed  me  that  he  was  very  busy.  More- 
over, there  was  no  opportunity  here  for  the  privacy 
which  I  desired;  so  after  an  exchange  of  greet- 
ings, and  a  few  conventional  inquiries,  I  invited  Mow 
to  lunch  with  me  at  the  Savarin,  at  whatever  hour 
would  best  suit  his  convenience. 

Somewhat  to  my  dismay,  he  fixed  upon  one  o'clock. 
As  it  still  wanted  ten  minutes  of  noon  I  now  had  over 
an  hour  of  leisure,  which,  as  may  be  imagined,  prom- 
ised to  hang  rather  heavy;  the  more  so,  as  I  was  im- 
patient to  make  some  real  progress  in  my  quest. 

Wall  Street  being  at  hand,  I  concluded  to  call  on 
a  friend  there  who  usually  handles  my  investments, 
and  make  a  convenience  of  his  office.  On  the  way,  I 
bought  an  afternoon  paper,  and  as  my  broker  hap- 
pened to  be  at  the  Stock  Exchange,  I  had  ample 
opportunity  to  read  it  from  first  column  to  last.  It 
proved  about  as  thrillingly  interesting  as  the  early 
afternoon  reprints  of  what  one  has  already  read  at 
breakfast  usually  are,  and  I  was  about  to  drop  it  to 
the  floor,  when  my  eye  caught  a  group  of  headlines 
on  the  last  page,  which,  up  to  that  moment,  had  es- 

[152] 


THE    CHINESE    MERCHANT 

caped  me,  but  which  now  suddenly  riveted  my  atten- 
tion: 

CELESTIAL  CLAIMS 
MYSTERIOUS  BOX  ON 
FALL  RIVER  PIER  ^ 

Anything  concerning  Celestials,  I  suppose,  would 
have  attracted  me,  just  then,  but  the  burden  of  this 
was  so  peculiarly  pertinent,  that  it  seemed  as  if  it 
must  have  intimate  connection  with  the  tangle  I  had 
undertaken  to  unravel. 

With  the  paper  gripped  tightly  in  both  hands,  and 
my  head  bent  intently  forward,  I  raced  through  the 
frivolously-written  article  which  followed;  and  from 
a  superabundance  of  cheap  wit  and  East  side  slang 
managed  to  extract  the  somewhat  meagre  facts.  A 
truck,  driven  by  a  Chinaman,  it  seemed,  had  that 
morning  taken  from  the  pier  of  the  Fall  River  Line  a 
square  box,  measuring  about  five  feet  each  way,  and 
perforated  with  a  number  of  augur  holes.  The  bril- 
liant space-writer  had  given  his  imagination  free  rein 
as  to  the  contents,  speculating  as  to  the  possibilities, 
from  edible  Chinese  dogs  to  smuggled  opium,  but  he 
had  omitted  to  furnish  the  name  and  address  of  either 
the  consignor  or  consignee.  "The  truck,  drawn  by 

[158] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

the  slant-eyed  white  horse,  and  driven  by  the  phleg- 
matic Chink,  clattered  away  in  the  direction  of  Mott 
Street,"  the  account  concluded. 

After  all,  it  was  a  very  commonplace,  everyday 
occurrence.  Probably  the  augur  holes  were  only  knot 
holes,  transformed  by  the  reporter's  imagination. 
Nevertheless,  I  thrust  the  paper  into  my  pocket. 
Mow  Chee  might  throw  some  light  on  the  matter. 
He  would  know,  in  all  likelihood,  what  sort  of  goods 
were  shipped  by  way  of  the  Fall  River  Line  to  his 
countrymen  in  New  York. 

We  secured  a  corner  table  in  the  inner  room  at  the 
Savarin.  It  was  not  so  crowded  there  and  it  was  less 
bustling  and  noisy.  My  companion  attracted  some 
little  attention,  of  course,  but  not  sufficient  to  prove 
annoying.  New  York,  as  a  rule,  pays  small  heed 
simply  to  the  unusual,  and  Chinamen  are  common 
enough  not  to  be  absolute  curiosities  even  in  the  big 
down-town  restaurants. 

A  very  dapper  little  fellow  was  Mr.  Mow;  neatly 
and  inconspicuously  clad,  and  well  brushed  and 
combed.  He  was  for  recalling  old  college  days,  when 
he  was  coxswain  of  the  class  crew  and  I  pulled  the 
stroke  oar,  but  my  time  was  too  precious  for  such 
reminiscence,  and  as  speedily  as  possible  I  broached 
the  subject  I  had  at  heart. 

[154] 


THE    CHINESE    MERCHANT 

"Now,"  I  began,  perhaps  less  delicately  than  I 
should,  "there  's  a  saying,  you  know,  that  the  only  good 
Indian  is  a  dead  Indian.  That  would  n't  apply  to 
the  Chinese,  would  it  ?  And  yet,  while  there  are  some 
very  excellent  Chinamen,  there  are  some  pretty  bad 
ones,  aren't  there?" 

He  grinned,  exposing  his  fine  teeth. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  "there  are  good  and 
bad,  but  the  percentage  of  bad  is  less  in  my  country 
than  in  some  others."  I  caught  the  significance 
of  his  remark,  and  realized  that  I  deserved  the 
rebuke. 

"And  amongst  the  educated  Chinese,  here  in  New 
York?"  I  went  on,  without  stopping  for  comment. 
"There  are  a  few  bad?" 

He  was  still  smiling. 

"Bad?"  he  queried.  "What  do  you  mean  by  bad? 
There  are  some  who  have  vices,  yes.  Some  gamble, 
some  smoke  opium;  some  get  the  best  of  a  bargain." 

"Are  there  some  who  would  kill?"  I  asked,  bluntly. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  he  protested,  without  raising  his 
voice.  "I  certainly  should  hope  there  are  none  such 
among  the  educated." 

And  then  I  told  him  about  the  three  letters,  and 
what  had  happened,  omitting  only  Cameron's  name 
and  place  of  residence.  Imperturbable  little  chap 

[155] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

that  he  was,  he  listened  without  emotion.  When  I 
concluded  he  said: 

"You  are  sure  they  were  Chinamen  who  did  this?" 

"Would  men  of  any  other  nationality  quote  Con- 
fucius and  Mencius?"  I  asked. 

"No,  I  think  not,"  was  his  reply,  "and  yet  it  might 
be  done  by  crafty  persons  to  mislead." 

But  I  could  not  agree  with  him. 

"We  are  not  revengeful  as  a  nation,"  he  said,  "we 
are  rather  long-suffering.  If  Chinamen  did  what 
you  tell  me,  it  was  in  return  for  some  very  great 
injury;  some  crime,  I  should  say,  against  their  parents 
or  near  kinsmen." 

"But  my  friend  was  never  in  China,"  I  declared. 
"And  he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  harm  any 
one." 

For  a  little  while  Mow  Chee  ate  in  thoughtful 
silence.  Presently  he  looked  up. 

"Clyde,  my  friend,  I  know  so  little  of  my  own 
people  here  in  New  York.  But  one  man  I  know, 
a  merchant,  who  is  very  prominent  and  very  upright. 
He  is  a  big  man  in  the  Six  Companies.  I  will  give 
you  a  card  to  him;  you  can  speak  to  him  in  con- 
fidence, and  if  he  can  help  you,  he  will,  not  only  be- 
cause I  sent  you,  but  because  he  stands  for  all  that  is 
best,  and  desires  that  my  countrymen  in  the  United 

[156] 


THE    CHINESE    MERCHANT 

States  shall  have  the  respect  they  deserve  from  your 
citizens.  I  would  send  you  to  the  Chinese  Consul, 
but  my  friend,  Mr.  Yup  Sing,  is  better." 

My  hand  was  on  the  newspaper  in  my  pocket,  but 
I  did  not  show  it  to  Mow  Chee.  I  would  reserve  it 
for  the  encyclopaedic  Yup  Sing,  whose  address,  as 
written  on  the  card  which  my  classmate  furnished  me, 
was  on  Mott  Street,  a  few  doors  from  Pell. 

New  York's  Chinatown  is  a  much  more  familiar 
locality  to  the  transient  visitor  than  to  the  average 
citizen.  In  all  the  years  of  my  residence  in  the  me- 
tropolis, of  which  I  am  a  native,  I  had  never  before 
had  either  the  occasion  or  the  desire  to  dip  into  this 
most  foreign  of  all  the  city's  foreign  sections.  To 
me,  Chinatown  was  as  a  far  country.  Vaguely  I  had 
an  idea  of  its  location.  It  lay,  I  knew,  east  of  Broad- 
way and  west  of  the  Bowery ;  but  its  latitude  was  not 
clearly  defined. 

My  impulse  was  to  hail  a  cab,  give  the  driver  the 
number  of  the  Mott  Street  establishment,  and  so, 
without  further  individual  effort,  be  whirled  away  to 
my  destination.  But  there  are  no  cab  stands  on  lower 
Broadway;  and  to  walk  to  Broad  Street,  where  the 
cabman  lies  all  day  in  wait  for  the  prosperous  stock 
broker  and  his  affluent  customer,  required  more  time 
than  in  my  impatience  I  was  willing  to  grant.  There- 

[157] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

fore  I  boarded  a  Broadway  car  and  was  drawn  halt- 
ingly northward,  until,  on  reaching  Canal  Street,  I 
alighted  in  sheer  desperation  and  turned  eastward. 

Here  a  letter  carrier,  of  whom  I  inquired,  sped  me 
straight  to  my  goal  —  a  couple  of  blocks  as  I  was 
going,  a  turn  to  the  right,  a  few  blocks  more,  and  the 
bulk  windows  of  the  Yup  Sing  Company  would  come 
into  view. 

I  found  the  establishment  easily  enough.  But  had 
it  not  been  for  the  name  printed  in  big  Roman  let- 
tering, I  should  never  have  imagined  it  a  Chinese  busi- 
ness house.  There  was  no  display  of  goods  in  the  big 
windows,  which  were  screened  half  way  up  by  light 
blue  shades,  giving  the  front  an  appearance  similar  to 
that  of  the  average  American  wholesale  house. 

Having  passed  inside,  however,  there  was  no  such 
illusion.  All  about  me  were  the  characteristic 
products  of  the  Orient,  from  brilliant  silken  em- 
broideries, and  exquisite  gold  and  silver  and  bronze 
work,  to  cheap  cotton  and  linen  fabrics,  lacquer  fur- 
niture, and  straw  slippers.  And  the  atmosphere  was 
further  enhanced  by  the  half-dozen  or  more  Chinamen 
who  were  lounging  in  the  middle  and  far  distance, 
each  with  shaven  crown  and  coiled  queue  and  each  in 
the  more  or  less  brilliantly  colored  native  dress. 

One  of  these,  a  comparatively  darkly-attired  young 

[158] 


THE    CHINESE    MERCHANT 

man  with  full,  round  visage,  came  forward  as  I  en- 
tered. 

"Is  Mr.  Yup  in?"  I  asked. 

He  was  inclined,  I  saw,  to  hesitation  and  so  I  pro- 
duced Mow's  card. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  after  studying  it  for  a  moment. 
"Oh,  yes.  Mista'  Yup!  He  in."  With  which  he 
left  me,  and  taking  the  card  with  him  disappeared 
behind  some  draperies  at  the  back  of  the  big  crowded 
store. 

Between  the  others,  who  regarded  me  for  a  moment 
only  with  idle  interest,  there  was,  while  I  stood  there, 
a  rapid  exchange  of  observations  in  their  native 
tongue,  mingled  with  a  sort  of  high-pitched  cackling 
which  I  assumed  to  be  laughter. 

I  had  turned  my  back  towards  them,  but  presently 
a  shuffling  of  feet  along  the  floor  informed  me  of  the 
approach  of  what  I  imagined  was  my  returning  emis- 
sary. On  whirling  about,  however,  it  was  to  face  an 
elderly  man  in  purple  silk  garments  and  a  black  skull 
cap  —  a  man  of  thin,  almost  cadaverous  yellow  visage, 
whose  upper  lip  and  chin  were  adorned  with  a  sparse 
growth  of  silky  blue-black  hair,  and  upon  the  bridge 
of  whose  nose  rested  a  pair  of  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles. 

"You  would  see  me,  sir?"  he  asked,  and  I  noted 

[159] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

that  there  was  scarcely  the  slightest  indication  of  the 
foreigner  in  either  pronunciation  or  accent. 

"If  you  are  Mr.  Yup,"  I  smiled,  "you  can,  I  fancy, 
from  what  Mr.  Mow  tells  me,  give  me  the  information 
I  am  in  search  of." 

He  did  not  smile  in  return,  but  his  thin  face  as- 
sumed an  expression  of  benignity  that  was  as  much 
of  an  invitation  to  lay  my  problem  before  him  as 
were  his  words. 

"Anyway  I  can  serve  a  friend  of  Mr.  Mow,"  he 
said,  "will  be  a  pleasure." 

But,  as  he  spoke,  the  benign  expression  passed. 
Once  again  that  thin  saff ron-hued  face,  with  its  hol- 
low cheeks,  and  small  deep-set  eyes,  had  become  un- 
fathomable. 

At  least  two  of  his  partners  or  salesmen  were  within 
ear-shot,  and  I  turned  a  significant  glance  towards 
them,  as  I  said: 

"The  subject  is  a  confidential  one,  Mr.  Yup.  If 
I  could  speak  to  you  — " 

"In  private?"  he  finished.  "Certainly,  sir.  Will 
you  kindly  step  this  way?" 

He  led  me  to  the  rear  of  his  store,  holding  aside  a 
curtain  of  heavy  embroidery,  through  which  I  passed 
into  a  smaller  room,  furnished  in  carved  teak  wood 
and  ornamented  with  magnificent  specimens  of  Chinese 

[160] 


THE    CHINESE    MERCHANT 

porcelain  and  pottery.  A  little  Chinese  girl,  not  over 
eight  years  old,  and  wearing  a  blouse  and  wide  breeches 
of  a  pale  cerulean  silk,  stood  beside  a  table.  Before 
her  were  several  small  sheets  of  rice  paper  on  which  she 
was  making  designs  in  water  colors. 

Ignoring  the  child,  he  indicated  a  chair  near  the 
only  window,  screened,  like  the  windows  in  front,  with 
a  blue  shade.  And  when  I  had  sat  down,  he  drew  up 
a  chair  for  himself  opposite  me. 

His  manner,  in  spite  of  the  benignity  of  a  moment 
before,  was  not  encouraging,  and  for  a  little  I  was 
embarrassed  as  to  just  where  to  begin.  At  length, 
however,  I  said: 

"I  fear,  Mr.  Yup,  that  some  of  your  countrymen 
have  recently  made  a  terrible  mistake." 

"A  mistake?"  he  echoed,  gravely. 

"A  mistake  that  I  trust  it  is  not  too  late  to  repair. 
Briefly,  they  have  kidnapped  a  gentleman  of  fortune 
and  influence,  one  of  my  dearest  friends,  in  a  manner 
most  mysterious,  after  first  subjecting  him  to  the  an- 
noyance of  a  series  of  anonymous  letters  and  a  suc- 
cession of  singular,  nerve-torturing  acts  of  trespass." 

Mr.  Yup  glanced  at  Mow  Chee's  card,  which  he 
still  held. 

"Mr.  Clyde,"  he  said,  with  no  more  emotion  than 
he  might  have  exhibited  had  I  told  him  I  wished  him 
"  [161] 


to  sell  for  me  a  Chinese  bronze  on  commission,  "Mr. 
Clyde,  I  do  not  see,  exactly,  why  you  come  to  me." 

"I  came  at  Mr.  Mow's  suggestion,"  I  explained. 
"He  tells  me  you  know  the  Chinese  of  New  York  as 
no  one  else  does." 

"The  police,  I  should  say,"  he  returned,  "know  the 
class  you  seek  better  than  I.  Why  not  go  to  the 
police?" 

It  was  not  easy  to  explain  to  him  why  I  had  not 
gone  to  the  police,  for  I  did  not  care  to  reveal  all  that 
we  feared,  and  how  we  dreaded  that  which  police  pur- 
suit might  precipitate. 

"Because,"  I  began,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
"I  believe  the  whole  thing  is  a  mistake.  I  believe 
that  those  involved  in  the  plot  must  sooner  or  later 
find  out  it  is  a  mistake.  If  the  aid  of  the  police  is 
enlisted,  the  fact  that  a  mistake  has  been  made  will 
not  be  any  extenuation.  My  object  is  to  find  the 
plotters,  prove  to  them  that  they  are  in  error,  promise 
them  immunity,  and  recover  my  friend." 

"What  you  have  told  me,"  said  Yup  Sing,  speak- 
ing slowly,  "is  not  enough.  If  you  will  tell  me  every- 
thing, I  will  let  you  know  what  I  think.  You  must 
give  the  names  and  the  places  and  the  dates." 

I  did  give  him  the  names  and  the  places  and  the 
dates.  Mow  Chee  had  told  me  I  could  rely  upon 

[162] 


THE    CHINESE    MERCHANT 

him,  implicitly,  and  I  told  him  all,  without  reserva- 
tion. I  gave  him  even  the  letter,  the  only  one  of  the 
three  that  remained  to  us  —  the  last  letter  in  which 
the  final  threat  was  made. 

As  I  look  back  on  it,  now,  I  cannot  understand 
why  I  did  this.  It  was  the  only  piece  of  proof,  the 
only  clue  left.  And  yet,  when  he  asked  to  keep  it 
for  a  little,  I  consented  without  so  much  as  a  demur. 
I  argued,  I  suppose,  that  he  was  a  reputable  mer- 
chant, with  an  established  business,  and  that,  there- 
fore, treachery  on  his  part  was  not  to  be  considered. 

"And  your  friend,"  he  said,  as  he  folded  the  paper, 
"was  never  in  China?" 

"Never,"  I  affirmed. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"He  has  told  me  so." 

It  was  neither  a  smile  nor  a  sneer  which  floated  for 
just  a  moment  across  those  sphinx-like  features.  It 
was  a  look  of  pitying  tolerance,  a  patronizing  gleam, 
merely,  from  the  small,  deep-set,  almond  eyes.  One 
of  England's  greatest  actresses,  in  speaking  of  the 
Chinese,  has  said:  "They  look  as  if  they  are  always 
thinking,  'I  have  lived  before  you;  I  shall  live  after 
you.' '  That  was  how  Yup  Sing  looked  then.  But 
he  merely  said: 

"Very  well.     I  will  learn  what  I  can." 

[163] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

"Soon?"  I  begged.     "Very  soon?" 

He  stood  up,  an  imposing  figure  in  his  purple  silk. 

"Come  to  me  to-morrow  evening.  Not  here,  but 
at  the  Chinese  restaurant  on  Doyers  Street.  Come 
at  nine  o'clock." 

From  my  pocket  I  drew  out  the  copy  of  the  after- 
noon paper,  and  pointed  to  the  article  about  the 
Celestial  and  the  mysterious  box. 

"Do  you  suppose  that  could  have  any  bearing  on 
the  matter?"  I  asked. 

He  adjusted  his  spectacles  and  read  the  half- 
column,  slowly,  from  first  to  last.  Then  he  smiled. 

"I  have  that  box  in  my  cellar,"  he  said.  "It  con- 
tains woolen  underwear  shipped  to  me  from  Lowell, 
Massachusetts." 

But  I  scarcely  heard  him,  for  my  attention  was  on 
the  swiftly  moving  brush  of  the  little  Chinese  maid, 
as,  deftly  handled,  it  now  blocked  out  with  bold  black 
strokes  a  silhouette  upon  the  piece  of  rice  paper  be- 
fore her  —  a  familiar  silhouette  of  a  short,  clumsy 
curved  boat  with  broad  lug-sail. 


[164] 


CHAPTER  XII 

"WE   WERE  IN   PEKING  TOGETHER" 

A  T  my  evening  conference  with  Evelyn  Grayson, 
reviewing  the  day's  events,  I  dwelt  with  some  in- 
sistence upon  the  singularity  of  that  episode  at  Yup 
Sing's. 

"It  was  impressively  significant,"  I  maintained, 
"even  if  it  was  only  a  coincidence.  Incidentally  it 
convinced  me  that  nothing  escaped  Mr.  Yup's  obser- 
vation. I  had  no  intention  of  referring  to  my  dis- 
covery. I  chose  rather  to  have  him  think  I  had  not 
noticed  the  figure  the  child  was  painting.  But  my 
choice  was  not  to  be  gratified.  He  knew  that  I  had 
seen  and  noticed  it;  and  so,  to  relieve  the  situation, 
he  frankly  directed  my  attention  to  the  symbol,  ex- 
plaining that  what  I  had  regarded  as  mysterious  was 
most  commonplace.  'It  is  one  of  the  first  things  that 
Chinese  babies  learn  to  draw,'  he  went  on,  'it  is  like 
the  pothook  and  hanger  of  the  American  primary 
schools.  First  they  draw  houses,  then  ships,  then  men ; 
and  the  houses,  the  ships  and  the  men  are  all  alike, 
just  as  are  your  A's,  your  B's,  and  your  C's.'  'And 

[165] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

when  signed  to  a  letter,'  I  queried,  'what  does  your 
ship  stand  for?'  He  shrugged  his  lean  shoulders  in 
a  manner  almost  Gallic.  'Who  shall  say?'  he  re- 
turned." 

"And  do  you  believe  the  pothook  and  hanger  ex- 
planation?" Evelyn  asked,  pointedly.  It  was  her 
way  to  probe  at  once  to  the  heart  of  a  matter. 

"I  can't  say  that  I  am  altogether  convinced,"  I 
answered,  non-committally.  "In  spite  of  Mow's  en- 
thusiastic encomium,  I  was  not  very  favorably  im- 
pressed by  Yup  Sing.  His  wall  of  reserve  is  too 
high  and  too  thick.  It  is  neither  scalable  nor  pen- 
etrable. And  yet  he  stands  well,  I  believe,  in  the 
community." 

We  sat  in  the  music  room,  where  a  fire  of  drift 
wood  wove  a  woof  of  green  and  violet  strands  through 
the  red  warp  of  the  blaze,  for  the  weather  had  turned 
chill.  Evelyn  wore  a  clinging  gown  of  black  panne 
velvet,  with  purple  orchids  at  her  waist.  It  had  a 
wonderfully  mature  effect  for  one  so  young  as  she, 
but  it  was  not  unbecoming.  Indeed  it  effectively  ac- 
centuated the  deep  raw  gold  tints  of  her  hair  and 
added  to  the  transparency  of  her  unwonted  pallor. 
I  was  marvelling  once  again  over  her  outwardly  brave 
up-bearing  in  spite  of  the  constant  anxiety  of  which 
pallid  cheeks  were  the  only  visible  sign,  when  she  said: 

[166] 


"WE    WERE    IN    PEKING" 

"I  was  sure  we  should  hear  from  Captain  MacLeod 
to-day." 

"He  has  probably  met  with  rough  weather,"  I  con- 
soled. "It  is  n't  child's  play  rounding  Point  Judith 
at  this  season,  you  know." 

"Rough  weather  or  not,"  she  insisted,  "he  must 
have  reached  Gloucester  by  now.  And  if  he  found 
Peter  Johnson,  or  if  he  did  n't,  he  was  to  telephone, 
you  remember." 

"Gloucester  is  something  of  a  place,"  I  explained, 
adopting  the  vernacular.  "It  includes  no  less  than 
eight  villages  and  five  thousand  men  are  engaged 
there  in  the  fishing  industry.  MacLeod  can't  be  ex- 
pected to  learn  in  five  minutes  whether  a  man  named 
Peter  Johnson  is  one  of  the  five  thousand." 

"But  the  whole  community  would  know  if  one  of 
their  number  had  such  an  experience  as  he  just  passed 
through."  And  for  this  argument  I  had  no  answer 
ready. 

Fortunately,  however,  none  was  required  of  me, 
for  at  that  moment  steps  were  audible  crossing  the 
hall,  and  when  our  eyes  turned  downward  they 
encountered  the  dapper  figure  of  Louis,  Cam- 
eron's French  valet,  halting  respectfully  on  the 
threshold. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  bowing,  "mais  void  des 

[167] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

lettres  qui  jai  trouve."  And  we  saw,  then,  that  he 
carried  a  tin  despatch  box. 

Evelyn  directed  him  to  place  it  upon  the  table  by 
which  she  sat.  It  seemed  that  she  had  not  given  over 
the  idea  that  the  letters  for  which  we  had  searched  so 
diligently  on  Sunday  were  somewhere  in  the  house, 
and  had  directed  Louis  to  bring  to  her  anything  in 
the  way  of  writing  that  he  could  lay  his  hands  upon. 

He  had  found  the  despatch  box,  he  told  us,  hidden 
away  behind  some  seldom  employed  volumes  in  the 
library,  and  thinking  it  might  contain  that  of  which 
Miss  Grayson  was  in  quest,  had  forced  the  lock,  to 
discover  several  carefully-tied  packets  of  letters. 

I  wish  I  could  give  even  a  half  adequate  idea  of 
the  way  she  thanked  Louis.  It  would  add  so  much 
to  a  realizing  sense  of  her  sweetness  without  detract- 
ing at  all  from  the  envisagement  of  her  dignity.  No 
one  could  have  heard  her  "bon  garpon"  and  not  have 
felt  impelled  to  consecrate  his  endeavors  henceforth 
and  forevermore  to  her  service.  As  for  Louis  his 
respectful  homage  and  fidelity  were  almost  pagan. 
I  verily  believe  he  would  willingly  have  suffered 
martyrdom  to  serve  her. 

As  he  withdrew  we  fell  avidly  upon  the  contents 
of  the  box,  yet  with  small  hope  of  finding  what  we 
sought;  for  the  letters  it  contained  were  all,  appar- 

[168] 


"WE    WERE    IN    PEKING" 

ently,  of  distant  date;  letters,  for  the  most  part,  of 
a  private,  personal  nature,  carefully  assorted,  and  ar- 
ranged in  red-taped  or  elastic-banded  bundles. 

It  was  no  mere  idle  curiosity  which  impelled  us 
to  read  many  of  them.  We  were  in  a  position  which 
may  best  be  described  as  anomalous.  Though  Cam- 
eron was  my  dearest  friend  I  knew  little  of  his  life 
prior  to  our  meeting,  and  Evelyn,  his  niece  and  ward, 
was  scarcely  less  uninformed  than  myself.  In  the 
letters  just  brought  to  light  there  might,  we  decided, 
be  found  some  clue  of  incalculable  service  in  the  task 
now  before  us.  And  so  we  untied  the  tapes  and 
stripped  off  the  bands  and  set  ourselves  to  careful, 
painstaking  examination. 

Seldom  have  I  engaged  in  a  labor  so  deadly  unin- 
teresting at  one  moment  and  so  keenly  engrossing  at 
the  next.  There  was  correspondence  here  which 
meant  nothing  to  us  whatever,  and  there  was  corre- 
spondence which  threw  a  search-light  upon  portions  of 
Cameron's  career,  baring  good  deeds  and  follies  alike, 
without  discrimination. 

It  was  only  natural,  I  suppose,  that  we  should  dig 
up  a  romance  —  a  gem  of  lustre  shining  amidst  dun, 
sordid  surroundings.  Evelyn  and  I  came  upon  two 
of  its  facets,  simultaneously,  and  paused  in  our  work 
to  question  its  disposal.  It  seemed  to  us  a  holy  thing, 

[169] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

too  sacred  for  a  stranger  touch,  and,  even  at  the  risk 
of  passing  over  what  might  prove  our  one  agent  of 
revelation,  we  folded  it  away  again  with  a  sense  of 
guilt  at  having  dared  to  lift  even  the  corner  of  the 
veil. 

For  a  full  hour  I  had  scanned  one  letter  after  an- 
other in  absorbed  intentness,  but  with  small  profit. 
Evelyn,  across  the  table,  had  been  quite  as  busy. 
Rarely  had  we  interrupted  our  employment  with  ex- 
change of  words.  But  now  the  writing  which  I  held 
provoked  exclamation. 

"Addison!"  I  cried,  so  sharply  cutting  the  silence 
that  the  girl  started.  "Addison!  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  him?" 

She  gestured  a  negative.  "Not  that  I  remember," 
she  qualified.  "Why?" 

"Because  we  must  find  him,"  I  declared,  a  little 
excitedly,  I  imagine;  for  the  letter  seemed  wonder- 
fully important. 

Instantly  she  was  all  alert. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  springing  up  and  coming 
to  my  side.  "What  have  you  found?" 

"Look!"  I  commanded,  the  sheet  of  paper  in  one 
upraised  hand,  a  finger  of  my  other  hand  pointing  to 
a  passage.  "Look!  In  1903,  your  uncle  Robert 

[170] 


"WE    WERE    IN    PEKING" 

was  in  Peking;  and  yet  he  gave  me  his  word  that  he 
had  never  visited  China." 

Resting  an  arm  on  my  shoulder  and  bending  for- 
ward she  read  for  herself :  "Just  to  think !  We  were 
in  Peking  together  and  neither  of  us  was  aware  of 
it  until  too  late!  What  a  foregathering  we  missed! 
Even  five  minutes'  chat  would  have  been  something; 
but  I  no  sooner  saw  you,  than  the  crowd  on  Legation 
Street  swallowed  you  up." 

"Have  you  read  it  all?" 

"Not  to  the  end,"  I  told  her,  "just  the  beginning 
and  the  signature.  Come,"  I  added,  "we  '11  read  it 
from  first  to  last,  together."  And  I  turned  back  the 
page. 

It  was  written  from  Cairo,  and  bore  date  of  De- 
cember 7,  1903. 

"My  dear  Cameron,"  it  began,  "I  am  wondering 
whether  you  are  back  in  New  York  again.  However, 
you  will  probably  be  there  for  Christmas  and  there- 
fore this  letter  will  not  long  await  you.  We  have  been 
making  a  rather  leisurely  tour  of  the  East.  Arrived 
here  two  days  ago  and  shall  remain  until  some  time  in 
January." 

The  writer  then  gave  a  general  outline  of  his 
travels.  "You  will  probably  be  surprised  to  learn 

[171] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

that  once  you  and  I  passed  each  other  as  ships  in  the 
night,  save  only  that  we  did  not  even  speak  each  other 
in  passing,"  he  went  on.  "It  was  my  last  day, —  in- 
deed my  last  hour, —  in  Northern  China.  Otherwise 
I  should  have  made  search  for  you.  Just  to  think! 
We  were  in  Peking  together,  and  neither  of  us  was 
aware  of  it  until  too  late.  What  a  foregathering  we 
missed!  Even  five  minutes'  chat  would  have  been 
something;  but  I  no  sooner  saw  you,  than  the  crowd 
on  Legation  Street  swallowed  you  up.  Half  an  hour 
later  I  was  on  the  train  for  Tien-tsin." 

The  rest  of  the  letter  was  rather  confusingly  per- 
sonal in  its  references  to  mutual  friends  and  interests. 
It  was  signed:  "Always  with  warm  regard,  Addi- 
son." 

"Do  you  suppose  that  is  his  first  name  or  his  last?" 
Evelyn  asked  me  as  we  came  to  it. 

"I  refuse  to  suppose,"  I  returned,  smiling.  "It 's 
an  even  chance.  What  is  more  to  the  point  is,  how 
long  has  Louis  been  your  uncle's  valet?" 

"Several  years." 

"Several  is  indefinite.  Too  indefinite.  Suppose 
we  have  him  in  here  and  find  out  exactly.  Possibly 
he  knows  Mr.  Addison." 

When  Louis  came,  however,  he  knew  nothing.  He 
had  never  heard  of  a  Mr.  Addison  or  of  a  Mr. 

[172] 


"WE     WERE    IN     PEKING" 

Addison  Something,  in  all  the  three  years  and  eight 
months  of  his  service  with  Mr.  Cameron.  So  Evelyn 
thanked  him  once  more  in  her  own  gracious  way  and 
we  continued  our  work,  directing  our  efforts  espe- 
cially now  to  unearthing  further  Addison-signed  let- 
ters which  might  prove  enlightening. 

"Why  should  Uncle  Robert  tell  you  he  had  never 
been  in  China?"  Evelyn  asked  me,  looking  up  sud- 
denly and  dropping  to  her  lap  the  letter  she  was  at 
that  moment  examining.  "I  can't  understand  that." 

"Nor  I,"  I  admitted.  "If  I  had  asked  him  out  of 
idle  curiosity  he  would  have  been  justified  perhaps  in 
misleading  me;  but  he  must  have  known  that  it  was 
in  his  interest  I  made  the  inquiry." 

For  just  a  moment  she  sat  in  silence,  her  narrowed 
gaze  on  the  glowing  embers  in  the  fireplace.  Then 
she  turned  to  me  again. 

"Do  you  think,  Philip,  it  was  because  he  had  some- 
thing to  hide?"  she  asked,  seriously.  "Something  he 
was  ashamed  of  and  feared  might  become  known?" 

Instantly  I  sprang  to  my  friend's  defence. 

"No,"  I  assured  her,  with  emphasis.  "No,  Evelyn. 
Whatever  his  motive  was,  I  am  satisfied  it  had  no  dis- 
honorable basis.  If  he  told  me  a  deliberate  falsehood 
it  was  not  to  spare  himself.  Possibly  —  yes,  prob- 
ably, it  was  to  shield  others." 

[173] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

I  was  perfectly  sincere  in  this,  but  even  had  I  be- 
lieved otherwise  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  pre- 
varication could  I  have  foreseen  my  reward.  Before 
I  quite  realized  her  purpose  Evelyn  was  out  of  her 
chair,  had  slipped  over  behind  me,  and  encircling  my 
neck  with  her  arms,  had  pressed  her  lips  softly  to 
my  cheek. 

"Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  you  say  that !  You  be- 
lieve in  his  bigness  —  in  his  nobility,  just  as  I  do, 
don't  you,  Philip,  dear?" 

"I  'm  sure  he  could  never  have  been  guilty  of  any- 
thing dishonorable,"  I  declared  again,  imprisoning 
her  hands.  But  the  next  moment,  hearing  steps 
again  crossing  the  hall,  I  reluctantly  released  them. 

For  a  third  time  Louis  stood  in  the  doorway.  Now 
he  upheld  a  small  red-bound  book,  and  his  face  was 
beaming. 

"Voila,  mademoiselle!"  he  exclaimed,  delightedly. 
"Je  viens  de  trouvant  ce  Uvre." 

It  was  a  book  of  addresses,  and  the  valet,  nervously 
turning  the  pages,  put  his  finger  upon  the  name  of 
Horatio  Addison,  M.D.,  with  the  air  of  one  who  had 
discovered  buried  treasure.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  we  were  ourselves  almost  as  demonstratively 
elated  as  he,  for  though  we  could  not  be  sure  that  this 
was  Cameron's  correspondent,  the  odds  certainly 

[174] 


"WE    WERE     IN    PEKING" 

favored  that  conclusion ;  and  unless  the  physician  had 
died  or  moved  away  since  the  entry  was  made,  we 
were  now  in  possession  of  his  address,  which  chanced 
to  be  an  apartment  house  on  Madison  Avenue,  that  I 
knew  to  be  given  over  entirely  to  doctors'  offices. 

This  time  Evelyn  assured  Louis  that  he  was  not 
merely  a  "good  boy"  but  an  incomparable  assistant, 
and  the  richness  of  the  reward  came  nigh  to  totally 
wrecking  his  composure,  for,  as  he  started  to  back 
from  the  room,  I  detected  unmistakable  tears  glisten- 
ing on  his  lashes. 

"Louis,"  I  checked  him,  with  sudden  inspiration, 
" apportez-nous  le  directoire  telephonic,  s'il  vous 
plait" 

And  when  the  book  was  brought  the  fact  that  Dr. 
Addison's  address  had  not  been  changed  was  promptly 
established.  I  was  for  calling  him  up,  then  and  there, 
but  Evelyn  pointed  to  the  clock  and  advised  patience. 
It  was  already  after  midnight. 

"To-morrow,"  she  said,  in  her  wise  fashion,  "you 
shall  call  on  him,  and  learn,  if  possible,  how  Uncle 
Robert  replied  to  that  letter.  There  is  a  difference, 
you  know,  Philip,  between  being  in  a  place  and  having 
some  one  see  you  there.  No  one's  eyes  are  infallible." 


[175] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN   DAMON   DOUBTED   PYTHIAS 

"VTOT  until  I  had  been  passed  into  an  elevator  by 
a  dainty  young  woman  in  the  white  habit  of  a 
trained  nurse,  shot  up  four  floors  into  the  hands  of 
another  who  might  have  been  the  first's  twin  sister, 
and  ushered  by  her,  in  turn,  into  a  severely  profes- 
sional-appearing waiting  room,  did  it  occur  to  me  that 
I  was  upon  an  errand  involving  the  employment  of 
an  extraordinary  degree  of  tact.  So  imbued  had  I 
been  with  the  importance  of  learning  whether  Cam- 
eron had  or  had  not  been  in  Peking  in  1903,  that  up 
to  this  moment  I  had  quite  lost  sight  of  my  own  posi- 
tion. Now  I  asked  myself,  on  what  ground  was  I 
to  make  my  plea  for  information?  To  tell  this  Dr. 
Addison  the  whole  story  would  certainly  be  inexpedi- 
ent. To  hint  even  at  alarm  concerning  Cameron 
might  involve  the  precipitation  of  that  financial  dis- 
aster he  had  feared  and  regarding  which  he  had 
warned  me.  Indeed,  would  not  any  effort  to  obtain 
the  facts  I  desired  be  likely  to  arouse  suspicion,  no 
matter  how  delicately  made? 

The  more  I  pondered  the  situation,  sitting  there 

[176] 


DAMON  DOUBTED  PYTHIAS 

thoughtfully  while  one  after  another  the  patients 
who  had  preceded  me  passed  into  the  physician's  con- 
sultation room,  the  more  beggarly,  it  seemed  to  me, 
became  my  chances  of  success.  And  when,  at  length, 
my  turn  came  to  enter  the  presence  of  my  friend's 
friend,  I  was  about  persuaded  that  I  should  very 
soon  be  making  an  ignominious  exit,  branded  as  an 
impertinently  meddling  busybody. 

I  have  always  contended  that  it  was  Dr.  Addison's 
severely  professional  air  which  was  responsible  for 
my  inspiration,  for  no  thought  of  such  a  course  oc- 
curred to  me,  until  standing  dumbly  hesitant  before 
him,  I  became  conscious  that  he  was  making  mental 
inventory  of  me  with  a  view  to  a  diagnosis. 

The  penetration  of  his  gaze  impressed  me  at  once. 
His  steel  gray  eyes  were  like  a  pair  of  converging 
probes;  and  they  were  his  dominant  feature.  Aside 
from  them  his  face  was  commonplace. 

"Doctor,"  I  said,  and  the  sound  of  my  voice  was 
a  relief  to  the  strained  tension  of  the  moment,  "I 
learned  of  you  through  Mr.  Cameron  —  Mr.  Robert 
Cameron,  a  mutual  friend." 

I  hoped  to  see  his  expression  brighten  at  the  name, 
but  it  did  not.  If  there  was  any  change  whatever 
it  was  in  the  reverse  direction.  After  a  second's  de- 
liberation he  asked : 

12  [177] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"You  wish  to  consult  me  regarding  yourself?" 

On  a  sudden  impulse  I  answered,  "Yes,"  though 
I  had  neither  ache  nor  pain,  and,  so  far  as  I  could 
judge,  was  perfectly  normal. 

"I  see,"  he  replied.  "Am  I  right  in  assuming  that 
your  trouble  is  of  a  nervous  character?" 

Heaven  knows  that  in  spite  of  my  fancied  normal- 
ity there  had  heen  sufficient  reason  in  the  past  few 
weeks  for  my  nerves  to  go  awry.  I  confessed  that  I 
had  been  under  considerable  mental  strain. 

Thereupon,  having  bade  me  be  seated,  he  began  to 
ply  me  with  questions  with  a  view  to  symptomatic  rev- 
elation. I  fear,  however,  that  I  gave  him  meagre 
material  upon  which  to  base  a  conclusion.  I  slept 
well;  my  appetite  was  excellent.  I  had  observed 
neither  a  numbness  nor  a  supersensitiveness  in  my 
finger  tips,  nor  a  sensation  of  fulness  at  the  base  of 
the  brain.  I  could  not  recall  any  twitching  of  my 
muscles,  nor  any  diminution  of  muscular  power.  At 
length,  after  a  brief  pause,  he  inquired : 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me,  Mr. 
Clyde,  why  you  think  you  require  professional 
attention?" 

And  my  inability  to  answer  him,  off-hand,  para- 
doxical as  it  may  seem,  eventually  supplied  me  with 
an  answer  at  once  truthful  and  convincing. 

[178] 


DAMON  DOUBTED  PYTHIAS 

"Because,"  I  explained,  gravely,  "I  find  that  of 
late  I  am  losing  my  power  of  mental  coordination." 

The  ardor  with  which  he  seized  upon  this  index 
of  my  supposed  malady  was  amusing.  Instantly  he 
grew  obviously  and  deeply  interested.  I  have  since 
learned  that  what  is  known  as  confusional  insanity,  a 
rare  condition,  usually  has  its  inception  in  this  wise, 
"without  essential  emotional  disturbance,"  if  I  may 
quote  an  authority.  At  the  time,  I  believed  he  was 
suspicious  of  a  developing  paresis.  What  he  thought, 
however,  or  what  he  did  not,  is  aside  from  the  story. 
I  know  only  that  his  manner  changed  abruptly,  his 
object  evidently  being  to  gain  my  full  confidence. 
Whereupon,  the  bars  of  reserve  lowered  between 
us,  I  ventured  to  revert  to  our  so-called  "mutual 
friend." 

"This  isn't  anything  like  beri-beri,  is  it,  Doctor?" 
I  began.  My  ideas  of  the  disease  I  mentioned  were 
of  the  haziest  character.  I  knew,  however,  that  it 
was  common  in  the  Orient,  and  thither  I  would  lead 
him. 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he  answered,  suavely  enough, 
now.  "Beri-beri  is  merely  the  Eastern  name  for 
multiple  neuritis.  You  have  n't  a  neuritis  or  you 
would  know  it.  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  beri-beri  in 
China  and  on  the  Malay  peninsula." 

[179] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

"Do  I  remember  to  have  heard  Cameron  say  he 
contracted  it  in  the  East?"  I  asked,  plunging  for  a 
connection. 

"I  don't  recall  that  Cameron  ever  had  it,"  was  his 
response.  And  then  his  brow  grew  thoughtful. 
"Are  you  sure  that  he  told  you  that  he  had ;  and  that 
he  was  attacked  whilst  in  —  in  Asia?"  I  noted  his 
hesitation  over  fixing  the  place,  and  wondered.  At 
all  events  I  had  arrested  his  interest.  Purposely  I 
adopted  a  tone  of  uncertainty. 

"N-n-no.  I  can't  say  definitely.  But  I  had  an 
impression  that — "  And  there  I  paused.  When  I 
continued  it  was  with  the  direct  question:  "Do  you 
happen  to  know,  Doctor,  whether  Cameron  was  ever 
in  Peking  ?  It  seems  to  me  it  was  — " 

"I  do  know  that  he  was  in  Peking,"  he  interrupted, 
almost  savagely.  "He  was  in  Peking,  in  September, 
1903.  To  be  exact,  he  was  there  on  the  fourteenth 
day  of  that  month.  I  have  reason  to  know  it, —  a 
particular  reason  to  know  it." 

After  all,  how  easily  the  information  I  craved  had 
come  to  me !  And  yet  I  would  have  been  glad  to  hear 
the  contrary;  for  Cameron  had  assured  me,  in  all 
solemnity,  that  he  had  never  been  in  China,  and  it 
jarred  upon  my  conception  of  the  man's  character  to 
discover  that  he  had  tried  to  deceive  me.  I  could  only 

[180] 


DAMON  DOUBTED  PYTHIAS 

conclude  that  his  purpose  was  praiseworthy.     But 
Dr.  Addison  had  not  finished. 

"Tell  me!"  he  was  demanding,  eagerly.  "Tell  me! 
I  have  excuse  for  asking.  Has  he  ever  admitted  to 
you  that  he  was  there?" 

"Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  I  returned,  "he  has  n't. 
But  I  had  the  information  from  some  one,  I  am 
pretty  sure." 

With  an  effort  the  physician  commanded  himself. 
When  he  spoke  again  he  was  comparatively  composed. 

"Mr.  Clyde,"  he  said  apologetically,  "I  am  not 
given  to  discussing  personal  matters  with  my  patients 
but  the  fact  that  you  and  Cameron  are  friends,  and 
the  fact  that  this  subject  has  come  up,  make  it  almost 
imperative,  I  suppose,  that  I  should  explain  briefly, 
the  feeling  I  have  just  exhibited.  Five  years  ago 
Rob  Cameron  and  I  were  about  as  near  counterparts 
of  Damon  and  Pythias  as  ever  existed.  While  Cam- 
eron was  in  Europe,  I  had  an  opportunity  to  go 
around  the  world  with  a  patient.  We  dawdled  a 
good  deal,  and,  you  understand  how  uncertain  corre- 
spondence is  under  those  circumstances,  I  never 
knew  just  where  I  should  be  at  any  given  time.  Con- 
sequently, a  number  of  letters  were  missed  by  both 
of  us.  I  was  still  thinking  of  Cameron  as  in  Eng- 
land or  on  the  European  continent,  when  lo  and  be- 

[181] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

hold,  I  saw  him  one  morning,  hurrying  along  the 
principal  street  of  the  inner  city  of  Peking.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  have  ever  been  there  or  not,  but 
if  you  have,  you  know  what  that  thoroughfare  is. 
It  was  all  bustle  and  activity  that  day,  and  about  as 
crowded  as  lower  Broadway  at  the  noon  hour,  but 
with  much  more  picturesque  and  contrasting  currents 
of  individuals  and  vehicles.  I  was  in  a  carriage,  my- 
self, and  Cameron  was  afoot,  walking  in  the  opposite 
direction.  As  we  passed  each  other,  he  did  not  seem 
to  see  me,  though  I  called  to  him  loudly.  This,  how- 
ever, did  not  surprise  me,  for  there  was  an  ungodly 
racket  in  progress.  Instantly,  I  had  the  carriage 
turned  about,  but  before  I  could  overtake  him,  he  was 
lost  in  the  crowd.  I  was  leaving  Peking  that  after- 
noon, and  so  had  no  chance  to  look  him  up.  I  wrote 
him  afterwards  and  told  him  of  the  incident,  and  how 
I  regretted  having  to  go  away  without  exchanging 
at  least  a  word  with  him.  To  my  amazement  he  not 
only  denied  having  been  in  Peking,  but  in  the  Chinese 
Empire  at  all.  When  we  met  in  London,  the  follow- 
ing Spring,  and  I  recalled  the  matter,  asking  why  he 
had  refused  to  admit  what  I  knew  to  be  the  truth,  he 
became  icily  indignant;  and  that  was  the  beginning 
of  the  end.  If  I  had  conceded  the  possibility  of  mis- 
take on  my  part,  all  might  have  been  well,  I  suppose ; 

[182] 


DAMON  DOUBTED  PYTHIAS 

but  there  was  no  such  possibility.  I  had  known  Cam- 
eron for  twenty-odd  years,  and  I  could  not  have  made 
an  error.  I  had  seen  him  distinctly,  clearly,  at  mid- 
day in  the  open.  It  was  he  beyond  all  peradventure, 
and  from  that  time  to  this  I  have  been  unable  to  con- 
ceive why  he  lied  to  me,  and  why  he  chose  to  end  our 
friendship  rather  than  admit  what  was  indubitable 
fact." 

His  explanation  finished,  he  reached  for  a  pen,  and, 
as  he  dipped  it  in  the  ink,  he  added : 

"I  trust  you  will  pardon  me,  Mr.  Clyde.  I  have 
detained  you." 

"You  have  interested  me,"  I  assured  him.  "And 
that  more  than  I  can  tell  you."  Which  was  quite 
true;  yet  I  was  even  more  perplexed  than  interested. 
To  the  maze  of  circumstances  there  was  now  added 
another  baffling  feature. 

Dr.  Addison  handed  me  the  prescription  he  had 
written. 

"After  meals,  and  at  bedtime,"  he  directed,  with 
a  return  to  his  professional  manner.  "If  you  do  not 
find  yourself  much  better  at  the  end  of  a  week,  come 
in  again." 

On  the  sidewalk  I  tore  the  little  square  of  paper 
into  bits  which  the  wind  carried  in  a  tiny  flurry  across 
Madison  Avenue. 

[183] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  DARK  OF  DOYERS   STREET 

AT  one  o'clock  that  day,  Evelyn  Gray  son  joined 
me  at  luncheon  at  Sherry's.  She  had  been  in  no 
mood  to  wait  any  longer  than  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary for  tidings  of  my  visit  to  Dr.  Addison;  and, 
moreover,  she  had  news  of  her  own  which  she  was 
anxious  to  convey  to  me. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  it  is  that  the  I-told- 
you-so  passion  is  inherent  in  all  women.  There  are 
those  who  manage  to  control  it  with  admirable  suc- 
cess under  average  circumstances,  but  sooner  or  later, 
even  the  most  courageous  battlers  against  this  ma- 
ternal heritage  succumb,  and  indulge  in  a  sort  of  dis- 
guised orgy  of  reproach. 

Evelyn  might  have  told  me,  for  instance,  that  Cap- 
tain MacLeod,  after  careful  investigation,  had  been 
unable  to  discover  either  hair  or  hide  of  Peter  John- 
son in  Gloucester  or  elsewhere,  and  stopped  there. 
That  is  what  a  man  would  have  done.  But,  alto- 
gether admirable  though  she  was,  the  eternal  f  eminine 


DOYERS     STREET 

was  strong  within  her.  Therefore  it  was  incumbent 
upon  her  to  add : 

"It  does  n't  surprise  me,  Philip.  When  you  told 
me  how  you  picked  that  man  up,  I  was  confident  that 
he  was  floating  out  there  in  your  path  just  for  that 
very  purpose." 

I  had  no  inclination  to  dispute  the  point  with  her. 
That  was  the  most  painful  part  of  it.  I  knew  that 
she  was  right  —  that  in  putting  Peter  Johnson  ashore, 
instead  of  in  irons,  I  had  committed  an  error  that 
might  prove  irremediable.  But  why  could  n't  she  see 
that  I  realized  it,  and  was  smarting  under  my  own 
condemnation,  and  so  have  spared  me  this  added  tor- 
ture of  hers?  Why?  Because  she  was  her  mother's 
daughter.  That  is  the  only  answer. 

As  for  my  interview  with  "Pythias"  Addison,  we 
discussed  it  in  all  its  phases,  without  reaching  any- 
thing like  a  definite  conclusion.  Taking  everything 
into  consideration  the  evidence  certainly  seemed  con- 
vincing that  Cameron,  in  spite  of  his  denials,  had  been 
in  China  in  1903.  And  yet  we  could  not  reconcile 
this  with  that  almost  fanatical  love  of  truth  which  we 
knew  to  be  his. 

"Couldn't  Dr.  Addison  have  been  mistaken?"  Ev- 
elyn asked. 

"It   is   possible,   of   course,"    I   answered.     "Yet 

[185] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

Cameron's  face  and  figure  are  not  of  a  common  type. 
Besides,  I  don't  believe  in  doubles.  I  have  heard  of 
so-called  wonderful  likenesses,  but  I  have  never  seen 
any  that  would  deceive  a  friend  of  twenty  years' 
standing." 

A  little  later  she  inquired  whether  the  detective 
engaged  to  shadow  Philetus  Murphy  had  furnished 
a  report. 

"Yes,"  I  told  her,  "it  came  in  my  morning's  mail. 
Murphy  is  still  at  Cos  Cob.  He  did  n't  leave  his 
bungalow  all  day  yesterday,  and  he  had  no  callers." 

"I  'm  crazy  to  know  what  you  learn  to-night  from 
Yup  Sing,"  she  went  on,  eagerly.  "Oh,  how  I  do 
hope  it  will  give  us  some  hint!  It  seems  terrible  to 
think  of  Uncle  Robert  in  the  hands  of  those  uncon- 
scionable Chinamen.  And,  Philip,  don't  you  think 
you  had  better  take  some  one  with  you?  I  suppose 
Mr.  Yup  is  to  be  trusted,  but  at  the  same  time,  you 
must  remember  you  are  going  into  the  enemy's  camp, 
and  you  should  be  careful." 

But  I  laughed  at  the  notion  of  taking  a  body-guard. 

"I  'm  to  meet  him  at  nine  o'clock,"  I  told  her,  "in 
a  public  restaurant.  Besides,  there  '11  be  a  crowd  of 
those  'Seeing  New  York'  people  down  there  about 
that  time,  and  Chinatown  will  be  on  its  best  behavior. 
So  never  fear,  little  girl.  Do  you  want  me  to  tele- 

[186] 


DOYERS     STREET 

phone  you  when  I  get  uptown?  You  know  I  'm  go- 
ing to  stop  to-night  at  my  rooms  in  the  Loyalton." 

"Of  course  I  want  you  to  telephone  me,"  she  re- 
turned, emphatically.  "It  should  n't  take  you  very 
long  to  hear  what  Mr.  Yup  has  to  tell,  should  it?  I 
shall  be  expecting  you  to  call  me  up  between  ten  and 
half-past,  or  by  eleven  at  the  latest;  so  don't  dare  to 
go  for  supper  first." 

"As  if  I  could  think  of  supper,"  I  said,  looking  at 
her  in  a  way  I  had,  "when  I  might  be  hearing  your 
voice !" 

Could  I  have  foreseen  what  the  night  was  to  bring 
forth  I  certainly  should  have  discouraged  her  wait- 
ing for  my  message.  But  the  power  of  prevision  is 
given  to  few  of  us,  and  of  those  few  I  am  not  one. 

Assuredly  I  had  no  misgivings  as,  after  dining  at 
the  University  Club  that  evening,  I  stepped  into  an 
electric  hansom  and  gave  the  driver  the  address  of 
the  Doyers  Street  restaurant.  Whatever  it  may  have 
been  in  the  past,  I  believed  the  Chinatown  of  the 
present  to  be,  outwardly  at  least,  a  reasonably  law- 
abiding  section  of  the  Borough  of  Manhattan.  And 
was  not  I  that  night  the  guest  of  one  of  its  most 
honored  citizens?  'What,  therefore,  had  I  to  fear? 

On  the  contrary,  as  we  turned  from  the  Bowery 
into  that  little  semicircular  thoroughfare  which  is 

[187] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

perhaps  the  most  characteristic  of  Chinatown's  three 
principal  streets,  I  was  pleasantly  interested.  This 
was  quite  a  different  place  from  that  which  I  had 
visited  the  afternoon  before.  Then,  a  sort  of  brood- 
ing quiet  reigned  over  what  was  so  ordinary  as  to 
be  scarcely  distinctive;  for  that  part  of  Mott  Street 
on  which  the  Yup  Sing  establishment  is  located,  I 
have  since  learned,  is  merely  one  of  the  gates  of  the 
real  Chinatown,  of  which  Doyers  Street  is  the  heart 
and  centre, —  and  which  awakens  only  after  night- 
fall. 

Now  the  place  was  alive  and  alight.  Narrow  road- 
way and  still  narrower  sidewalks  were  thronged  with 
a  combination  of  denizens  and  sightseers.  Shop 
fronts  and  upper  windows  glowed  with  varying  de- 
grees of  brightness.  From  the  Chinese  theatre  on 
the  left  came  a  bedlam  of  inharmonious  sounds:  the 
brazen  crash  of  cymbals,  the  squeaking  of  raucous 
stringed  instruments,  the  resounding  clangor  of  a 
gong.  Voices  high-pitched  and  voices  guttural, 
mingled  with  hoarse  and  strident  laughter,  echoed 
from  wall  to  wall  of  the  street's  encroaching  squalid 
buildings. 

Before  the  least  unpretentious  of  all  these  struc- 
tures, my  hansom  stopped,  and  as  I  stepped  to  the 
curb  I  got  a  glimpse  of  its  banner-and-lantern-strung 

[188] 


DOYERS     STREET 

balcony,  giving  to  the  street  a  touch  of  color  that 
helped  to  lift  it  into  an  atmosphere  which,  if  not 
Oriental,  was  at  least  vividly  un-American. 

Finding  now  that  I  had  anticipated  my  appoint- 
ment by  something  like  ten  minutes  I  chose  to  watch 
further  the  kaleidoscopic  scene  without,  rather  than 
pass  the  time  waiting-  at  a  table  within;  and  to  this 
end  took  up  a  position  of  vantage  on  the  restaurant's 
low  step. 

Whether  I  am  more  or  less  keenly  observant  than 
the  average  man  I  do  not  know.  Probably  any  one 
as  fascinated  by  the  general  scene  as  was  I,  would 
have  noted  as  closely  its  individual  elements.  I  am 
not  sure.  But  the  truth  is  that  in  a  very  few  mo- 
ments I  had  acquired  a  mental  photograph  of  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street,  in  so  far  as  it  came  within 
my  direct  vision.  In  other  words  every  detail  of  the 
background  of  the  moving  picture  before  me  was 
indelibly  printed  upon  my  mind's  retina.  There  was 
the  playhouse,  with  its  plain,  rectangular  doorway, 
unadorned,  save  by  a  quartette  of  rude  signs;  two 
above,  slanting  outward,  and  one  on  either  side,  all 
announcing  "Chinese  Theatre,"  and  one  giving  the 
current  attraction  in  Chinese  characters,  with  the 
added  notice,  "Seats  reserved  for  Americans."  To 
the  left  of  this  was  a  quick-lunch  restaurant,  with 

[189] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

white  painted  bulk  window,  beneath  which  a  pair  of 
cellar  doors  spread  invitingly,  one  of  them  resting 
against  a  conventional  American  milk  can.  On  the 
theatre's  right  was  a  laundry,  dim  and  evil  looking, 
two  pipe-smoking  Celestials  decorating  its  low  step. 
And  beyond  this  was  the  wide  opening  to  a  basement, 
above  which,  in  white  Roman  lettering  on  a  black 
ground,  I  read  the  legend:  "Hip  Sing  Tong." 

Again  and  again  my  gaze  persisted  in  returning  to 
this  sign  and  the  dimly  lighted  cavern  beneath  it. 
The  place  held  for  me  the  inexpressible,  unfathom- 
able charm  of  the  mysterious,  beside  which  the 
heathenish  racket  of  the  theatre  across  the  way,  the 
sinister  aspect  of  the  dismal  laundry  and  its  pair  of 
pipe-smoking  guardians,  even  the  constantly  chang- 
ing procession  of  varied  types  in  roadway  and  on 
sidewalks,  exerted  but  meagre  allure. 

From  time  to  time  dark,  silent  figures  glided 
vaguely  into  view  only  to  disappear  within  this  maw 
of  mystery.  Once,  while  I  watched,  I  had  seen  a 
figure  issue  forth  to  be  lost  again  instantly  in  the 
distant  gloom  of  the  curving  street.  Now,  reverting 
once  more  to  this  magnet,  after  a  moment's  truancy, 
my  eyes  were  rewarded  by  sight  of  another  slowly 
emerging  form,  silhouetted  nebulously  against  the 
dusk. 

[190] 


DOYERS     STREET 

At  the  head  of  the  steps  it  paused,  uncertainly, 
and  then,  instead  of  gliding  swiftly  away  in  the 
direction  of  Pell  Street  as  did  the  other,  it  turned 
in  my  direction,  passing  almost  at  once  into  the 
comparatively  glowing  radius  of  the  street  lamp 
opposite. 

I  saw  then  that  it  was  a  man,  thin  to  emaciation, 
round-shouldered,  and  crooked  limbed.  Whether 
some  one  jostled  him,  or  a  voice  from  the  roadway 
startled  him,  I  don't  know.  But  for  some  reason  he 
turned  his  head  suddenly,  and  the  light  from  the  lamp 
fell  full  upon  a  face,  stubble-bearded,  deep-lined,  and 
repellent,  the  face  not  of  a  Chinaman  but  of  a  white 
man;  a  face  into  which  I  had  looked  but  twice,  and 
then  but  for  a  brief  moment;  yet  a  face  as  indelibly 
fixed  in  my  memory  as  were  the  grim  fronts  of  the 
buildings  now  behind  it  —  the  face  of  Peter  John- 
son, the  pretended  castaway. 

I  think  I  must  have  had  it  in  mind  to  pick  him  up 
bodily  and  carry  him  away  with  me  that  I  might  by 
inquisitorial  torture  wring  from  him  a  confession. 
Otherwise  I  should  have  adopted  a  less  eager  and 
more  subtle  method  of  bringing  the  miscreant  to  book 
than  that  which  I  rashly  attempted.  Before  I  con- 
sidered the  situation  I  was  across  the  street  and  at 
his  heels.  My  finger  tips,  indeed,  were  at  his  shoul- 

[191] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

der.  In  the  fraction  of  a  second  I  should  have  had 
him  gripped  and  have  been  hustling  him  through 
the  crowd  as  my  prisoner.  But  at  the  instant  of 
seeming  success,  he  eluded  me.  In  some  strange  way 
he  caught  alarm,  and,  shrinking  beneath  my  hand, 
darted  sinuously  off,  between  this  pedestrian  and  that, 
with  the  flashing  speed  of  a  lizard. 

But,  though  he  escaped  my  clutch,  my  eyes  were 
more  nimble.  With  them  I  followed  him  until  I  saw 
him  drop  between  the  cellar  doors  which  gaped  be- 
neath the  white  bulk  window  of  the  quick-lunch  room. 
And  where  my  eyes  went,  I  went  after.  Another 
brief  moment  and,  without  thought  or  heed,  I  was 
plunging  in  pursuit  down  that  short,  steep  flight  of 
steps  —  plunging  from  a  lighted,  peopled,  noisy  pub- 
lic street  into  the  collied  gloom  and  grim  silence  of  a 
low  underground  basement. 

And,  as  misfortune  would  have  it,  I  must  needs 
catch  my  heel  on  the  edge  of  one  of  the  treads,  and 
go  sprawling  on  my  hands  and  knees ;  while  a  poignant 
pain  shooting  cruelly  through  my  ankle  told  me  that 
a  sprain  was  added  to  my  mishap. 

For  a  minute  I  lay  as  I  had  fallen,  prone  and  mo- 
tionless ;  and  in  that  space  I  realized  the  f oolhardiness 
of  my  whole  course  of  action.  My  very  intrepidity 
had  contributed  to  disaster.  Instead  of  accomplish- 

[192] 


At  the  head  of  the  steps  he  paused  uncertainly. 


DOYERS     STREET 

ing  a  capture  I  had  cast  myself,  disabled,  into  the 
mesh  of  the  enemy. 

The  inky  darkness  and  profound  silence  of  the 
place  augmented,  of  course,  my  apprehension.  In 
vain  I  strained  my  eyes  to  distinguish  an  object,  my 
ears  to  detect  a  sound,  yet  I  knew  that  the  uncanny 
creature  I  had  followed  must  be  close  to  me ;  lurking, 
possibly,  with  raised  or  pointed  weapon  to  mete  out 
my  fate  once  he  made  sure  of  my  position. 

The  minute  —  it  could  hardly  have  been  more, 
though,  as  I  think  of  it,  it  seemed  infinitely  prolonged 
—  ended  in  a  sound  above  and  behind  me.  Very 
softly,  carefully,  some  one  was  closing  the  cellar 
doors.  Stealthily  muffled  though  it  was,  the  faint 
creaking  of  the  hinges  shattered  the  spell  which  held 
me,  and  in  spite  of  my  tortured  ankle,  I  managed  to 
gain  my  feet.  But  by  now,  the  silence  reigned  once 
again,  and  in  the  engulfing  blackness  I  lost  all  sense 
of  direction. 

The  suspense  of  the  moment  was  unendurable.  To 
stand  there  waiting,  not  knowing  when  or  from  what 
quarter  I  should  be  set  upon,  was  nervous  torment  so 
hideous  that  in  sheer  desperation  I  plucked  my  match 
box  from  my  pocket,  drew  forth  a  match,  and  struck 
it  to  a  blaze.  As  it  flared  forth,  routing  the  shadows 
in  disorderly,  if  but  temporary,  retreat,  I  made  quick 
13  [193] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

searching  survey  of  my  dungeon.  To  my  amaze- 
ment I  was  apparently  quite  alone. 

Relieved,  in  a  measure  at  least,  I  employed  another 
match  and  still  another,  hobbling  painfully  about  the 
grimy,  low-ceiled  basement,  in  diligent  inspection. 
My  first  thought  was  that  Johnson  was  in  hiding,  and 
having  located  me  by  my  own  lighted  matches,  waited 
now  only  an  opportunity  to  throw  himself  upon  me 
from  behind.  But  I  very  soon  discovered  that  he  had 
fled.  Evidently  he  had  retraced  his  steps  up  the  rude 
ladder  to  the  street,  closing  the  doors  after  him  to 
check  my  further  pursuit. 

The  place  into  which  I  had  followed  him  was  evi- 
dently a  Chinese  candy  manufactory  and  cake  bakery. 
To  the  right  of  the  entrance  were  rows  of  shelves  con- 
taining jars  of  what  I  recognized  as  sweetmeats  pe- 
culiar to  the  Celestial.  In  a  large  bowl  on  a  rough 
table  or  counter  was  the  granulated  flour  with  which 
these  confections  are  invariably  powdered;  and  here, 
too,  were  boxes  of  round,  jumble-like  cakes.  I  saw 
now  that  the  space  upon  which  I  had  fallen  was  so 
restricted  that  I  wondered  how  it  was  possible  for  my 
quarry  to  have  reached  the  steps  and  reascended  with- 
out touching  me  or  at  least  acquainting  me  with  his 
movement.  And  I  marvelled,  too,  that  twisting  my 
ankle  as  I  did,  I  had  not  plunged  at  a  slant  and  struck 

[194] 


DOYERS     STREET 

my  head  upon  one  or  another  of  the  crowding  tables 
and  boxes  with  which  the  cramped  basement  was  fur- 
nished. 

My  third  match  disclosed  a  narrow  door  in  the 
broad  partition  at  the  rear,  and  fancying  that  perhaps 
the  elusive  Peter  Johnson  had  escaped  by  that  means 
while  I  was  getting  to  my  feet,  I  lost  no  time  in  seek- 
ing to  investigate  what  was  beyond.  I  was  somewhat 
surprised  to  find  the  door  unfastened.  Once  open, 
it  revealed  a  smaller  and  more  crowded  room,  warm 
and  fetid,  into  which  were  packed  no  less  than  half  a 
dozen  barrels  of  raw  and  cooked  peanuts,  arranged 
about  a  low  stove  on  which  a  peanut-filled  cauldron 
was  slowly  steaming. 

Curiously  interesting  as  all  this  would  have  been 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  I  experienced  only  a 
surprised  relief,  for  with  my  injured  ankle  I  was  in 
no  fettle  to  cope  with  even  the  weakest  adversary. 
Indeed,  now  that  this  easement  was  afforded  me,  my 
sprain  suddenly  asserted  itself  with  renewed  exacer- 
bation, sharp  twinges  of  pain  shooting  to  my  knee 
and  demanding  instant  relief. 

In  front  of  the  low  stove  I  had  noticed  a  stool,  and 
for  this  I  groped  with  the  eagerness  of  the  drowning 
man  after  a  straw.  To  my  joy  I  laid  hands  upon  it, 
and  drawing  it  nearer  sank  down  with  a  sigh  of  grati- 

[195] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

fication  comparable  only  to  that  with  which  a  Mara- 
thon victor  drops  to  earth  after  a  hotly-contested  race. 

Gradually,  now  that  my  weight  was  removed,  the 
pain  lessened,  and  a  sense  of  comfort  ensued.  Con- 
tentment enfolded  me,  which,  if  I  thought  of  it  at  all, 
I  attributed,  I  suppose,  to  the  reaction  from  the 
agony  which  I  had  just  been  suffering.  I  remember 
thinking  that  I  would  rest  a  few  minutes  and  then 
take  my  departure  as  I  had  entered,  for  I  realized 
that  cellar  doors  are  fastened  only  from  within,  and 
that  there  could,  therefore,  be  no  impediment  to  my 
going  when  I  chose. 

I  distinctly  recall  that  I  was  conscious  of  a  certain 
strange  incongruity  of  situation,  but  could  hardly 
comprehend  in  just  what  the  incongruity  consisted. 
I  knew  only  that  I  felt  pleasantly  warm  and  drowsy; 
and  my  sprained  ankle  had  ceased  altogether  to  pain 
or  annoy. 

And  then,  I  was  sailing  in  an  open  boat  in  mid- 
ocean,  and  Peter  Johnson,  in  oilskins,  sat  at  the  helm, 
with  a  saturnine  leer  on  his  face,  and  tugged  at  brief 
intervals,  always  longer  and  stronger,  upon  what 
seemed  to  be  the  sheet,  which  had  become  wrapped 
around  my  throat  and  chest  and  which,  by  degrees, 
was  crushing  my  windpipe  and  lungs,  so  that  my 
breath  came  only  in  sharp,  shuddering,  aching  gasps. 

[196] 


CHAPTER  XV 

AMYL    PEARLS 

will  deny  that  a  sturdy  physique  is  a  valu- 
able asset?  Had  it  not  been  for  a  deep  chest, 
a  powerful  pair  of  lungs,  a  heart  without  flaw,  and  an 
underlying  vitality  such  as  is  possessed  by  but  a  small 
minority  in  these  degenerate  times,  I  must  certainly 
have  succumbed.  For,  as  I  learned  later,  I  had  in- 
haled enough  carbon  monoxide  gas  to  have  killed  the 
average  man  of  my  age,  twice  over.  The  stove  on 
which  the  cauldron  of  peanuts  steamed  was  a  charcoal 
furnace,  and  the  tiny  space  within  that  back  room 
was  impregnated  with  the  heavy  poisoned  fumes  to 
a  distance  of  four  feet  and  more  above  the  floor. 

Sitting  on  a  low  stool,  bent  forward  over  my 
sprained  ankle,  which  for  relief  I  had  raised  and 
rested  across  my  other  knee,  I  had  come  in  contact 
with  the  deadly  gas,  breathing  it  without  suspicion, 
until  drowsiness  intervened  and  stupor,  insensibility, 
and  eventually  coma  followed. 

It  is  customary,  I  understand,  to  employ  rigorous 

[197] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

treatment  in  such  cases  to  effect  resuscitation.  If  I 
am  to  believe  what  I  have  been  told  of  my  condition 
when  discovered,  I  was  very  far  on  the  way  to  disso- 
lution. I  was,  in  fact,  moribund,  and  in  the  eyes  of 
those  who  carried  me  from  the  cellar  to  an  upper 
room  I  was  already  dead.  It  is  perhaps  needless  to 
add  that  no  steps  were  taken  to  revive  me.  Even  had 
I  been  regarded  as  still  living  I  doubt  that  I  should 
have  received  any  other  treatment. 

Providence,  however,  favored  me.  I  was  thrown 
into  a  bunk  under  one  of  the  few  open  windows  of 
Chinatown,  and  a  door  left  ajar,  by  accident,  prob- 
ably, drew  across  me  a  current  of  comparatively  pure 
oxygen.  Thus  invited,  Nature  reasserted  itself,  and 
respiration,  which  had  been  temporarily  suspended, 
gradually  resumed  its  office. 

With  dawning  consciousness  came  acute  discom- 
fort. My  head  and  back  ached  nigh  unbearably,  and 
my  ankle,  swollen  to  twice  its  normal  size,  shot  pains 
to  my  thigh.  My  tongue  seemed  too  large  for  my 
mouth  and  my  throat  was  raw.  Later,  memory 
started  a  train  of  questions  and  surmises.  A  half 
light  admitted  through  the  open  window  gave  un- 
satisfactory answer  as  to  time  and  place.  It  might 
be  dawn,  midday,  or  evening.  I  might  still  be  in  the 
same  building  into  the  basement  of  which  I  had 

[198] 


AMYL     PEARLS 

plunged  after  the  so-called  Peter  Johnson,  or  I  might 
be  miles  away.  Yet  of  one  fact  I  was  assured.  It 
was  no  longer  night.  Day  had  come  again  and  eight 
hours  at  least  must  have  passed  since  I  stood  killing 
time  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  restaurant  in 
which  I  was  to  have  met  Yup  Sing. 

And,  as  my  mind  cleared,  there  rushed  in  upon  me 
a  recollection  of  Evelyn's  apprehension  and  of  my 
promise  to  reassure  her  not  later  than  eleven  o'clock. 
Suffering  as  I  was,  physically,  I  know  my  mental 
distress  at  thought  of  how  she  must  have  waited  with 
growing  solicitude  hour  after  hour  for  that  expected 
ringing  of  the  telephone  bell;  how,  indeed,  she  must, 
even  now,  be  distraught,  not  by  uncertainty,  but  by 
the  conviction  that  some  ill, —  some  serious  ill, —  had 
befallen  me,  was  more  poignant. 

In  my  eagerness  to  relieve  at  once  this  unrest  which 
I  knew  to  be  hers  I  would  have  risen,  but  my  strength 
was  not  equal  to  the  test.  My  muscles  refused  to 
obey  my  will  and  I  lay  supine,  inert,  powerless.  I 
would  have  learned  the  time,  but  to  seek  my  watch, 
which  I  fondly  fancied  was  still  in  my  pocket,  seemed 
such  an  enormous  exertion  that  I  reluctantly  gave 
over  the  idea.  To  breathe,  to  draw  air  into  my  lungs 
and  expel  it,  was  prodigious  labor,  wearying  me,  it 
appeared,  to  exhaustion;  though  with  every  inhala- 

[199] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

tion  lucidity  of  thought  and,  I  suppose,  physical  force 
as  well,  were  being  imperceptibly  augmented. 

After  a  time  I  found  myself  listening  intently  for 
sounds  that  might  prove  informatory,  while  with  head 
slightly  turned  I  made  scrupulous  inventory  of  the 
room  in  which  I  was  cribbed.  It  was  a  cramped, 
confined  place,  unplastered,  and  furnished  with  four 
rough  board  bunks,  one  of  which  I  occupied.  The 
other  three  were  empty ;  but  in  the  scant  passageway 
between  my  resting  place  and  that  opposite  was  a 
stool,  and  upon  the  stool  the  pipe  and  other  parapher- 
nalia peculiar  to  opium  smoking. 

Then,  very  slowly,  there  came  to  me  a  realization 
of  the  vulpine  cunning  of  these  Orientals  into  whose 
hands  I  had  fallen.  I  was  to  be  found  here,  dead, 
not  from  inhalation  of  foul  air  in  an  ill-ventilated 
cellar,  which  might  excite  suspicion  and  provoke 
inquiry,  but  from  over-indulgence  in  opium,  to  which 
I  had  probably  been  addicted  for  years,  unknown  even 
to  my  closest  friends.  For  the  "hop  fiend"  there 
is  small  sympathy,  no  matter  what  his  position,  and 
my  family  would  hesitate,  therefore,  to  prosecute, 
preferring  to  avoid  unpleasant  publicity. 

Yes;  it  was  very  clear  they  had  thought  me  dead, 
and  so  had  left  me  here  unwatched  and  unattended 
with  the  evidence  of  my  mode  of  passing  theatrically 

[200] 


AMYL    PEARLS 

displayed  beside  me.  It  only  remained  now  for  some 
employee  or  visitor  to  discover  me  and  give  the  alarm. 

I  had  about  reached  this  conclusion,  after  a  long 
and  desperately  trying  effort  at  logical  reasoning, 
when  my  straining  ears  detected  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps in  the  passage.  The  door  of  the  den  was 
slightly  ajar  and  I  lay  well  in  sight  of  any  passer-by 
who  should  glance  through  the  narrow  opening. 

Whether  to  feign  death,  or  boldly  make  known 
my  recovered  consciousness,  was  for  just  a  moment  a 
question.  But  before  my  sluggish  brain  could  de- 
cide, choice  was  snatched  from  me.  The  footsteps 
paused,  and  simultaneously,  it  seemed,  the  door  swung 
farther  inward,  disclosing,  not  the  pig-tailed,  greasy- 
bloused  Mongolian  I  had  expected,  but  a  white 
woman,  tall  and  shapely,  with  hair  of  iron  gray  and 
the  very  kindliest  eyes  that  ever  I  looked  into. 

I  made  as  if  to  speak,  but  my  swollen  tongue  re- 
fused to  perform  its  office,  and  something  that  may 
best  be  described  as  a  gurgle  was  the  result.  With 
that  she  came  to  my  side,  and  for  a  little  regarded 
me  silently.  I  felt  that  seeing  the  pipe  and  the  little 
peanut-oil  lamp,  she  must  draw  the  natural  inference, 
and,  though  there  was  no  reproach  in  her  look,  I 
wished,  if  possible,  to  correct  that  false  impression. 
I  therefore  made  effort  to  gesture  denial,  employing 

[201] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

a  glance  to  indicate  the  objects  and  a  very  feeble  side 
movement  of  the  head  to  express  repudiation. 

It  is  possible  that  she  understood,  but  I  question 
that  she  believed.  I  have  no  recollection  that  she 
spoke  a  single  word  to  me,  and  yet,  when  she  was 
gone,  I  felt  that  she  would  surely  return  to  my  rescue. 
And  I  was  not  misled.  I  suppose  this  partial  re- 
lief to  my  anxiety  resulted  in  a  slackening  of  mental 
effort  on  my  part,  for  I  must  confess  that  what  fol- 
lowed is  very  vague  in  my  memory.  I  know  only 
that  she  was  accompanied  by  two  men,  one  white  and 
one  yellow,  who  carried  me  down  a  narrow  flight  of 
stairs,  out  onto  the  street  and  into  a  waiting  cab.  I 
cannot  recall  that  I  spoke,  but  I  learned  afterward 
that  I  had  mumbled  the  word,  "Loyalton,"  and 
thither  she  accompanied  me. 

There  a  physician  came,  one  whom  I  had  never  seen 
before;  and  I  was  dosed  with  aromatic  spirits  of 
ammonia  and  made  to  breathe  oxygen  through  a 
funnel,  by  a  white-clad  nurse,  who  also,  at  intervals, 
painted  my  ankle  with  iodine,  and,  whenever  I  at- 
tempted to  speak,  domineered  me  in  a  gentle  and  per- 
fectly ladylike  manner  to  silence. 

With  regard  to  sending  word  to  Evelyn  Grayson, 
however,  I  was  insistent;  and  though  she  had  refused 
absolutely  to  gratify  my  curiosity  in  other  respects, 

[202] 


AMYL     PEARLS 

she  set  my  mind  at  rest  on  this  point  by  informing 
me  that  Miss  Grayson  had  called  up  the  Loyalton 
by  telephone  several  times  and  had  been  informed 
of  my  condition  five  minutes  after  my  arrival  at  my 
chambers. 

There  were  times  during  the  week  which  followed 
when  I  was  nigh  unto  death;  and  when,  finally,  after 
ten  days  I  was  pronounced  convalescent,  it  was  with 
the  added  well-worn  phrase,  that  my  recovery  was 
"nothing  short  of  a  miracle." 

It  was  on  the  eleventh  day  that  I  was  first  per- 
mitted to  see  and  talk  with  Evelyn.  My  mother  had 
called  daily,  sitting  in  silence  beside  my  bed,  but  no 
other  visitor  in  all  that,  to  me,  seemingly  endless 
period,  had  been  admitted  to  my  room. 

My  curiosity  was  by  now  very  keen  to  learn  what 
had  developed  in  the  interval  regarding  the  Cameron 
mystery.  Had  he,  by  any  chance,  been  heard  from? 
What  had  the  Detective  Agency  reported  concern- 
ing Philetus  Murphy?  And  what,  I  wished  to  know 
most  of  all,  had  Yup  Sing  discovered? 

I  was  in  a  dressing  gown,  pillowed  and  f  ootstooled 
in  a  great  leather  chair  awaiting  my  visitors  —  for 
Mrs.  Lancaster  came  with  Evelyn  —  when  their 
names  were  announced.  I  suppose  I  looked  ill  — 
though,  save  for  a  grievous  weakness,  I  was  feeling 

[203] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

fit  enough, —  for  Evelyn's  smile  as  she  entered  merged 
instantly  into  an  expression  of  mingled  anxiety  and 
sympathy.  I  know  that  with  her  coming  I  awoke 
to  the  truth  that  my  desire  for  information  was  a 
far  less  moving  factor  than  my  craving  for  sight  of 
her  and  for  the  music  of  her  voice,  and  my  only  re- 
gret was  that  the  understanding  between  us  had  not 
reached  the  stage  of  acknowledged  betrothal;  which, 
I  make  haste  to  add,  was  certainly  no  fault  of  mine. 
Weak  as  I  was  my  arms  ached  to  fold  her  in  a  re- 
assuring embrace;  yet  must  I  content  myself  with  a 
mere  fervent  hand-clasp  and  an  oral  declaration  that 
I  was  by  no  means  so  feeble  as  I  appeared. 

Nevertheless  I  was  delighted  to  see  that  she  gave 
small  evidence  of  the  strain  she  had  been  under.  Save 
for  a  slight  additional  pallor  she  was  still  the  same 
wholesome-looking,  thoroughly-poised  girl  of  a  fort- 
night ago.  And  my  admiration  for  her  took  on  an 
added  measure  because  of  this  renewed  evidence  of 
her  sterling  courage. 

"And  you  promised  me  to  be  discreet!"  she  re- 
proached, her  smile  returning,  her  hand  still  in  mine. 

"I  did  not  foresee  such  provocation  to  indiscre- 
tion," I  pleaded,  with  an  attempted  gayety  of  tone 
that  must  have  seemed  incongruous.  "To  have  been 
discreet  under  the  circumstances  would  have  involved 

[204J 


AMYL    PEARLS 

a  repetition  of  the  one  mistake  for  which  you  blamed 
me.  You  don't  know,  of  course,  why  I  jumped 
down  a  ladder  into  a  pitch-black  cellar,  do  you?" 

"I  know  you  were  in  pursuit  of  some  one  —  a  pick- 
pocket, they  say,  who  had  taken  your  watch." 

"Do  they  say  that?"  I  asked,  interested. 

"That  is  what  Miss  Clement  learned." 

"Miss  Clement?"  I  queried.  "Who  is  Miss 
Clement?" 

"Oh,  I  forgot  that  you  don't  know.  Miss  Clement 
is  the  missionary  who  found  you  in  the  —  is  it  'hop 
joint'  they  call  it?" 

"The  lady  with  the  kind  eyes?" 

At  my  designation  her  face  brightened  respon- 
sively. 

"You  remember  her,  then!"  she  cried,  delightedly. 
"Has  n't  she  kind  eyes  ?  And  she  does  n't  belie  them, 
either.  She  's  just  the  dearest,  most  self-sacrificing 
creature  I  ever  knew." 

For  the  moment  we  had  both  forgotten  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster, and  when  I  would  have  apologized  I  found 
that  my  nurse  had  carried  her  off  into  the  next  room 
and  was  interestedly  showing  her  some  framed  photo- 
graphs of  the  Siena  Cathedral. 

"And  Miss  Clement  learned  that  I  pursued  a  pick- 
pocket?" I  went  on,  when  Evelyn  had  drawn  a  chair 

[205] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

near  me  and  sat  down.  "A  very  clever  explanation 
to  account  for  the  disappearance  of  my  watch,  but 
not  the  true  one.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  person  I 
followed  was  a  miscreant  of  a  deeper  dye.  When  I 
last  saw  him,  previous  to  this  encounter,  he  was  known 
as  Peter  Johnson." 

Wide-eyed,  the  girl  stared  at  me  for  an  instant. 

"Peter  Johnson!"  she  repeated,  slowly.  "So,  I 
was  right.  He  was  in  the  plot.  He  had  something 
to  do  with  Uncle  Robert's  disappearance.  He  was 
the  one  who  broke  the  amyl  pearls  on  board  the  yacht." 

It  was  my  turn  now  to  stare.  Of  what  was  this 
young  woman  talking?  "Amyl  pearls!"  Was  I 
mad,  or  was  she? 

She  saw  my  perplexity,  and  hastened  to  enlighten 
me. 

"Oh,  dear,  Philip !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  forgot  again. 
There  is  so  much  to  tell  you.  Really,  I  hardly  know 
where  to  begin.  Miss  Clement  has  been  of  such  aid 
to  us!  She  is  what  they  call  an  'independent  mis- 
sionary/ That  is,  she  has  no  affiliation  with  any  of 
the  church  societies  or  reform  associations.  For 
fifteen  years  she  has  been  working  in  Chinatown 
amongst  the  white  women,  and  she  knows  the  place 
and  the  people  as  if  she  were  indeed  one  of  them.  I 
had  her  out  at  Cragholt  for  a  day  and  I  Ve  seen  her 

[206] 


AMYL    PEARLS 

four  or  five  times  here  in  town,  and  I  have  told  her 
everything,  and  she  has  explained,  or  at  least  given 
quite  reasonable  surmises,  concerning  many  of  the 
incidents  that  seemed  to  us  inexplicable.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  amyl  pearls?" 

Of  course  I  had  heard  something  of  amyl  pearls, 
and  I  said  so. 

"They  are  glass  capsules,"  I  added,  "and  contain 
a  liquid  which  smells  like  bananas.  They  use  them, 
I  believe,  in  heart  attacks,  by  crushing  them  in  a  hand- 
kerchief and  inhaling  the  drug." 

But  it  was  not  the  same  drug,  Evelyn  explained. 
Miss  Clement  had  told  her  all  about  it.  She  doubted 
that  it  was  an  amyl,  at  all,  though  it  was  put  up  in 
the  same  fashion,  and  released  in  the  same  way,  and 
it  was  like  an  amyl,  in  that  it  was  extremely  volatile. 

"Miss  Clement  has  never  seen  one  of  them,"  Evelyn 
continued,  "but  some  of  the  Chinese  have  told  her  of 
them,  and  of  the  wonders  that  they  perform.  She 
says  the  chemical,  whatever  it  is,  is  very  expensive, 
and  so  they  are  seldom  used,  but  that  in  China,  es- 
pecially in  secret  government  enterprises,  they  are 
employed  on  occasion.  The  effect  is  seemingly  to 
make  invisible  the  person  who  uses  them.  Really, 
they  don't  do  anything  of  the  sort;  for  they  are 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  capsules,  filled  with  a 

[207] 


peculiarly-acting  anaesthetic  —  an  anaesthetic  so  quick 
and  powerful  in  its  action  that  the  victim  falls  into 
insensibility  without  warning,  and  emerges,  after  an 
interval  of  ten  or  twelve  minutes,  without  knowing 
that  he  lost  consciousness  or  that  more  than  a  single 
second  has  elapsed." 

"The  idea  seems  ingenious,"  I  returned.  I  was 
interested,  surely,  but  very  far  from  convinced. 
"But,"  I  objected,  "how  is  it  that  the  ansesthetizer 
is  not  anaesthetized  himself?" 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  break  the  pearls  under  his  own 
nose,"  Evelyn  explained.  "He  casts  them.  The 
slightest  concussion  fractures  the  shell,  and  every  one 
within  a  certain  radius  drops  instantly  into  a  tem- 
porary trance." 

"And  the  swine  before  whom  the  pearls  are  cast, 
do  they  drop  to  the  ground  to  rise  again  when  the  ten 
or  twelve  minutes  are  concluded?"  I  ridiculed. 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  Your  muscles  are  not  relaxed. 
You  stand  or  sit  as  if  turned  suddenly  to  stone.  If 
your  arm  is  extended,  for  instance,  it  remains  in  that 
position  until  the  effect  ceases."  She  was  very  much 
in  earnest,  and  tried  to  persuade  me  that,  aided  by 
these  pearls,  it  would  be  a  very  easy  matter  to  commit 
all  three  of  the  depredatory  acts  which  had  so  amazed 
and  shocked  us. 

[208] 


AMYL    PEARLS 

I  am  the  last  man  to  regard  anything  as  impossible 
in  this  day  of  wonders,  yet  I  was  by  no  means 
willing  to  accept  such  a  solution  merely  on  the 
hearsay  evidence  of  a  woman  who  had  spent  a 
decade  and  a  half  amongst  the  Chinese  of  New  York 
City. 

*'Yes,  Evelyn,"  I  said,  tolerantly,  "it  is  worth  con- 
sidering, and  at  the  first  opportunity  I  shall  look  into 
it.  But  just  now  there  must  be  more  important 
matters  for  you  and  me  to  discuss.  Did  Miss 
Clement,  by  any  chance,  see  Yup  Sing?" 

At  the  question  the  girl's  pale  cheeks  flushed  to 
her  temples  and  her  violet  eyes  blazed. 

"I  asked  her  to  see  him,  and  she  did,"  was  her  an- 
swer. "I  thought  she  might  learn  from  him  when 
and  where  you  parted,  and  what  led  up  to  the  plight 
in  which  you  were  found.  But  he  told  her  that  you 
had  failed  to  keep  an  engagement  with  him.  He  in- 
sinuated that  you  had  come  to  Chinatown  intent  upon 
making  trouble,  and  ended  by  declaring  that  he  had 
no  time  to  devote  to  answering  the  conundrums  of 
such  a  harebrained  American  as  you  had  proved  your- 
self. Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  impertinence?  I 
wanted  Miss  Clement  to  take  me  to  him  that  I  might 
tell  him  what  I  thought  of  his  outrageous  conduct, 
but  she  refused.  She  says  he  stands  very  high 
14  [209] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

amongst  his  people,  and  that  it  is  not  well  to  antag- 
onize him." 

I  smiled  at  her  indignation.  "After  all,"  I  said, 
"he  is  n't  so  much  to  blame.  I  must  have  cut  a  rather 
undignified  figure  chasing  Mr.  Johnson  through 
Doyers  Street,  and  then  falling  down  cellar  stairs. 
When  I  am  able  to  get  out  again,  I  shall  go  to  Mr. 
Yup  and  apologize." 

But  before  I  was  able  to  get  out  again,  I  changed 
my  mind.  To  be  quite  definite  I  changed  it  that 
same  evening,  when,  in  reading  the  reports  of  O'Hara, 
the  detective  who  for  nearly  two  weeks  had  been  shad- 
owing the  red  giant,  Philetus  Murphy,  I  came  upon 
this  entry: 

".  .  .  At  5 :27,  he  entered  the  Mott  Street  store  of 
the  Yup  Sing  Company,  remaining  until  6:42,  when  he 
came  out  with  a  tall,  thin,  well-dressed  Chinaman,  said  to 
be  Yup  Sing,  himself.  Together  they  went  to  Ching 
Wung's  restaurant  on  Doyers  Street.  From  there  a 
Chinaman  known  as  Muk  Chuen  returned  with  Murphy 
to  Cos  Cob." 

And  the  date  of  this  occurrence  was  the  day  fol- 
lowing my  Chinatown  misadventure. 


[210] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  SLUMP  IN  CRYSTAL  CONSOLIDATED 

week  of  my  convalescence  was  not  eventful. 
Evelyn  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  called  daily,  and  the 
reports  from  O'Hara  came  each  morning  with  un- 
varying regularity  and  equally  unvarying  lack  of 
import.  The  artist,  after  his  visit  to  Yup  Sing,  had 
returned  to  his  Cos  Cob  hermitage,  accompanied  by  a 
successor  to  his  former  unfortunate  Chinese  servant, 
and  now  rarely  left  his  own  grounds.  Gravid  with 
suggestion  as  his  appearance  in  Chinatown  had 
seemed  at  first,  I  soon  came  to  realize  that  it  might 
possibly  bear  no  more  vital  significance  than  that 
altogether  commonplace  proceeding,  the  quest  of  a 
cook.  And  in  the  absence  of  any  confirmatory 
evidence  to  the  contrary,  and  with  the  knowledge 
gleaned  from  Miss  Clement  that  Yup  Sing,  on 
occasions,  added  to  his  regular  business  of  merchan- 
dizing that  of  an  employment  agent,  I  saw  no 
reason  to  attach  an  undue  importance  to  the  incident. 
Nevertheless  I  relinquished  none  of  my  suspicions 
regarding  Murphy,  but  continued  the  detective's 

[211] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

surveillance  with  a  fresh  injunction  to  vigilance. 
And  I  did  not  apologize  to  Yup  Sing. 

Miss  Clement,  to  whom  I  believe  I  owe  my  life, 
visited  me  at  my  request.  How  I  whelmed  her  with 
my  gratitude  is  no  more  material  than  how  she  en- 
deavored to  make  light  of  her  service  to  me,  declar- 
ing that  such  offices  were  a  part  of  her  day's  work 
in  her  chosen  field,  and  that  her  day's  work  was  her 
passion.  And  yet  it  was  this  part  of  our  interview 
which  gave  me  my  strongest  insight  into  her  excep- 
tionally worthy  character.  Absolutely  unselfish,  she 
joyed  in  a  life  that  even  a  religious  fanatic  might 
well  have  quailed  before;  finding  flowers  in  muck 
heaps  and  jewels  amid  tinsel. 

In  five  minutes,  too,  I  glimpsed  her  abounding 
magnetism,  the  moving  agent  in  that  rare  efficiency 
which  was  part  and  parcel  of  her.  Later,  I  learned 
of  the  weight  of  her  influence  among  the  dwellers  in 
the  Chinese  colony;  not  from  any  direct  narrative  of 
what  she  had  accomplished, —  for  she  was  chary  of 
speaking  of  herself, —  but  by  deduction,  purely. 
Moreover,  my  watch,  a  few  trinkets  and  a  little 
money,  taken  from  me  that  night  in  Doyers  Street, 
had  all  been  returned  through  Miss  Clement's  good 
offices;  and  if,  thus  far,  she  had  afforded  us  no  real 
clew  in  our  absorbing  exigency,  I  felt  that  ultimately 

[£12] 


CRYSTAL    CONSOLIDATED 

her  knowledge,  coupled  with  her  resourcefulness, 
would  prove  to  us  of  unbounded  value.  And,  as 
events  shaped  themselves,  I  was  not  wrong. 

It  was  now  nearly  four  weeks  since  Cameron's 
disappearance,  and  a  fear  that  he  had  met  death  in 
some  fiendish  form  at  the  hands  of  his  abductors  had 
come  to  be  with  me  very  nearly  an  obsession.  The 
care  I  exercised  in  hiding  my  real  state  of  mind  from 
Evelyn  could  not  well  be  exaggerated.  When  I  ap- 
peared to  her  most  hopeful  I  was  actually  most  de- 
spairing. With  Miss  Clement,  however,  I  had  no 
reason  to  dissemble.  With  all  frankness  I  told  her 
of  my  despair;  and  when,  instead  of  trying  to  com- 
fort me  with  empty  words  of  encouragement  she 
agreed  with  me  that  the  chances  of  our  ever  seeing 
Cameron  again  were  at  a  minimum,  I  liked  her  the 
better  for  being  straightforward. 

"I  sometimes  feel,"  I  said  to  her,  making  full  con- 
fession, "that  we  made  a  terrible  mistake  in  not  at 
once  notifying  the  authorities.  Even  now  I  am  in- 
clined to  lay  the  matter  before  them.  Anything 
would  be  better  than  uncertainty.  A  few  arrests  and 
the  third  degree  might  work  wonders." 

"Where  would  you  start?"  she  asked  in  a  blunt, 
logical  way  that  reminded  me  of  Evelyn's  faculty  of 
going  to  the  root  of  things.  "You  see,  you  know  so 

[213] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

little.  The  story  about  the  portrait  and  the  mirror, 
the  police  would  regard  as  more  amusing  than  con- 
vincing. And  besides,  you  have  n't  any  proof.  Yup 
Sing,  you  tell  me,  has  the  only  original  letter,  and 
by  this  time  he  may  have  lost  it  or  have  forgotten 
that  he  ever  had  it.  If  you  had  seen  as  much  of  the 
Chinese  as  I  have,  you  would  appreciate  how  wily 
they  are.  My  belief  is  that  the  police  would  conclude 
that  Mr.  Cameron  fell  overboard  from  his  yacht  and 
was  drowned.  Indeed  it  would  be  fortunate  if  they 
did  not  take  the  view  that  he  jumped  overboard  and 
committed  suicide.  Or,  worse  still,  it  would  not  be 
beyond  them,  Mr.  Clyde,  to  charge  that  you  pushed 
him  over.  The  yellow  papers  would  almost  certainly 
intimate  such  a  possibility."  Had  some  one  else 
voiced  this  suggestion  I  should  probably  have  resented 
it,  but  I  understood  Miss  Clement.  She  was  as  kind 
as  her  eyes  indicated;  and  that  is  speaking  very 
strongly. 

"Nevertheless,"  I  said,  with  growing  determina- 
tion, "I  shall  make  the  case  public.  It  is  my  duty, 
and  I  am  willing  to  run  all  the  risks  you  point  out. 
I  shall  start  by  making  a  complaint  against  Peter 
Johnson.  We  '11  have  him  arrested,  get  his  record, 
and  follow  along  that  trail  until  we  turn  up  the  other 
conspirators.  If  poor  Cameron's  shares  fall  in  the 

[214] 


CRYSTAL     CONSOLIDATED 

market,  they  '11  have  to  fall.  If  the  notoriety  pre- 
cipitates a  delayed  fatality  of  which  Cameron  is  the 
victim,  it  cannot  be  helped.  I  simply  will  not  longer 
shoulder  the  responsibility  of  silence." 

The  way  she  had  of  silent  deliberation  was  almost 
masculine.  I  can  see  her,  even  now,  as  she  sat  there 
that  afternoon,  her  hair  the  same  shade  of  gray  as 
her  cloth  gown,  her  fresh,  clear  complexion  lined  in 
thought,  her  kindly  eyes  half  closed.  For  the  better 
part  of  a  minute,  she  pondered.  Then,  suddenly, 
her  face  awoke,  and  she  asked  me: 

"Will  you  wait  three  days  longer?  That  is  all. 
I  have  channels  of  information  that  are  closed  to  the 
police,  even.  There  are  men  in  Chinatown,  and 
women  too,  who  would  lay  down  their  lives  for  me. 
I  think  some  of  them  would  even  betray  their  friends, 
which  is  a  still  greater  sacrifice.  Wait  three  days, 
Mr.  Clyde,  and  if  at  the  end  of  that  time  I  have  not 
learned  for  you  what  you  want  to  know,  go  on  with 
your  publicity  idea." 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  thoughtful.  Evelyn 
believed  in  the  woman's  ability  to  aid.  She  had  said 
as  much  to  me.  And  I  myself  possessed  a  certain 
degree  of  faith  in  feminine  intuition.  Aside  from 
that,  though,  Miss  Clement  had  demonstrated  that 
she  wielded  a  certain  power  in  her  bailiwick  —  was 

[215] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

not  my  watch,  at  that  moment,  in  my  pocket?  —  and 
her  whole  personality  proclaimed  inherent  capacity 
for  accomplishment. 

"Very  well,  Miss  Clement,"  I  agreed.  "I  will 
wait  the  three  days.  It  is  now  Saturday,  November 
14.  If  by  this  time  Tuesday  afternoon  we  are  not, 
at  least,  on  the  track  of  something  tangible,  I  shall 
be  on  my  way  to  Mulberry  Street." 

Sunday  was  with  me  a  day  of  impatience.  I 
fretted  now  at  confinement,  for  my  ankle  was  quite 
strong  again,  and  I  was  perfectly  well  in  other  re- 
spects, too.  But  my  physician  had  set  Monday  for 
my  first  day  out,  and  he  refused  to  concede  even  a 
twenty-four-hour  change  of  plan.  But  I  chafed 
more  even  at  the  inactivity  to  which  I  had  agreed 
concerning  Cameron  than  at  the  confinement.  All  at 
once,  I  had  become  imbued  with  a  necessity  for 
prompt  and  strenuous  measures.  Some  awful  thing, 
I  knew  not  what,  seemed  ominously  imminent,  and 
remorse  tore  at  me  tormentingly. 

Early  Monday,  I  telephoned  Miss  Clement  for 
tidings  of  her  progress,  but  she  could  only  implore 
me  to  wait.  She  had  nothing  to  report,  but  she  was 
encouraged.  With  my  hands  thus  tied  diversion  was 
my  only  refuge,  and  an  accumulation  of  office  work 

[216] 


CRYSTAL    CONSOLIDATED 

into  which  I  plunged  served,  in  part  at  least,  this 
purpose. 

Evelyn  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  come  in  from 
Greenwich  and  opened  the  Cameron  town  house,  a 
great  white  granite  Renaissance  affair,  on  upper 
Fifth  Avenue,  facing  the  Park;  and  because  the  girl 
had  made  me  promise,  I  lunched  there;  but  I  went 
with  less  grace  than  ever  before,  uncertain  as  I  was 
of  my  self-control.  Evelyn's  faith  in  Miss  Clement, 
however,  was  contagious.  She  spoke  of  little  else, 
and  when  I  came  away  it  was  with  strengthened  hope 
of  speedy  results. 

It  is  my  habit  to  glance  over  the  earlier  editions 
of  all  the  evening  papers  before  leaving  my  office, 
and  later,  either  on  the  train  to  Greenwich  or,  when 
in  town,  at  my  club,  to  read  more  carefully  the  later 
issues  of  the  News  and  Star.  On  this  particular  day, 
however,  a  succession  of  matters  of  more  importance 
prevented  my  looking  at  so  much  as  a  headline,  until, 
seated  at  dinner,  in  the  club  restaurant,  I  saw  on  a 
window  ledge  beside  me  one  of  the  more  sensational 
of  the  afternoon  dailies,  and  appropriated  it  in  lieu 
of  better  companionship. 

It  was  one  of  those  journals  which,  in  catering 
to  the  tastes  of  the  proletariat,  conceive  it  wise  to 

[217] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

minimize  their  references  to  Wall  Street,  save  only 
when  a  marked  slump  or  a  panic  points  the  moral  of 
the  unscrupulous  capitalist  and  his  heinous  crimes. 
•When,  therefore,  long  bold-face  type  attracted  my 
eye  with  the  announcement,  "Fall  in  Crystal  Con- 
solidated," I  started  to  read  the  subjoined  article,  con- 
fident enough  that  some  director  or  directors  had 
been  spitted  for  barbecue.  And  before  I  had  read 
five  lines  I  came  upon  the  name  of  Robert  Cameron. 

If  I  was  to  believe  this  introductory  paragraph 
my  friend  was  to  Crystal  Consolidated  what  John  D. 
Rockefeller  was  to  Standard  Oil,  yet  in  the  months 
of  our  intimacy  he  had  made  no  reference  to  this  con- 
nection; and,  though  I  was  thoroughly  familiar  with 
the  "great  glass  trust,"  as  it  was  called,  and  with  the 
name  of  its  multi-millionaire  master,  strangely 
enough  I  had  never  connected  the  Cameron  I  knew 
with  this  Cameron,  the  Captain  of  Industry. 

"I  am,"  he  had  said,  in  all  modesty,  "largely  in- 
terested in  a  certain  line  of  industrial  enterprises." 
That  was  all.  I  suppose  I  should  have  known;  and 
yet,  "no  prophet  is  without  honor,  save  in  his  own 
country." 

The  newspaper  article  I  now  read,  however,  left 
no  room  for  doubt  on  the  subject;  and,  incidentally 
in  a  single  sentence,  revealed  the  secret  of  how  Cam- 

[218] 


CRYSTAL    CONSOLIDATED 

eron  had  succeeded  in  escaping  that  general  recog- 
nition which  is  usually  the  penalty  of  greatness.  "He 
has  never  sat  for  a  photograph." 

But,  while  this  part  of  the  article  interested,  that 
which  followed  startled  and  perplexed  me: 

"Crystal  Consolidated  fell  to  103,  to-day,"  it  went 
on,  "because  of  a  persistent  rumor  that  Robert  Cam- 
eron is  seriously  ill,  in  a  New  England  Sanitarium. 
The  greatest  secrecy  has  been  maintained  as  to  his 
malady  and  his  whereabouts  by  those  who  are  in  a 
position  to  know.  It  has  been  ascertained,  however, 
that  after  spending  a  quiet  summer  at  his  country 
place,  Cragholt,  on  Long  Island  Sound,  near  Green- 
wich, he  started  on  October  21,  on  his?  fast  steam 
yacht  'Sibylla'  for  a  cruise  along  the  New  England 
coast.  Ten  days  later  the  'Sibylla'  returned,  but  Mr. 
Cameron  was  not  on  board. 

"It  is  known  that  he  has  been  in  ill  health  for 
months,  and  there  are  those  who  now  declare  that  he 
has  sought  the  seclusion  of  an  institution  for  the  treat- 
ment of  nervous  diseases,  near  Boston,  his  condition 
being  critical. 

"Inquiry,  to-day,  at  his  Fifth  Avenue  home  in  this 
city,  and  at  his  Connecticut  country  seat,  was  fruit- 
less. Mr.  Cameron  was  at  neither  place,  and  the 
servants  expressed  ignorance  concerning  his  present 
address. 

"At  the  offices  of  the  Crystal  Consolidated  Man- 
ufacturing Company  and  at  those  of  the  missing 

[219] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

financier's  brokers,  Hatch  &  Hastings,  evasion  was 
the  keynote  of  the  answers  to  all  questions. 

"Whether  Mr.  Cameron  is  as  ill  as  is  reported,  or 
whether  he  is  quite  robust,  the  effect  of  the  gossip  on 
Crystal  Consolidated  was  disastrous.  A  slump  of 
fifteen  points  in  two  hours,  this  afternoon,  wiped  out 
many  weakly  margined  accounts,  and  spread  ruin 
among  a  number  of  speculators  who  fondly  imagined 
this  law-defying  trust,  of  which  Cameron  is  the  sup- 
porting Atlas,  as  firmly  entrenched  as  is  the  govern- 
ment itself. 

"Unless  something  definite  is  forthcoming  regard- 
ing Mr.  Cameron's  condition  before  the  market  opens 
to-morrow,  a  panic  in  Crystal  Consolidated  is  pre- 
dicted. It  closed  to-day  at  102%  bid,  103  asked; 
the  lowest  figures  recorded  this  year." 

It  startled  me,  because  it  showed  that  at  least  a 
part  of  the  secret  we  were  guarding  was  a  secret  no 
longer ;  and  it  perplexed  me  because  I  could  not  fancy 
through  what  channel  these  somewhat  distorted  facts 
had  filtered  into  publicity.  I  had  no  doubt  that  the 
ball,  having  been  set  rolling  in  this  fashion,  would 
gain  both  in  volume  and  momentum  unless  some  ener- 
getic measures  were  promptly  taken  to  check  it. 
And  yet,  what,  under  the  circumstances,  could  we 
do?  Subterfuge,  I  knew,  would  be  useless,  and  the 
truth  must  prove  an  accelerant. 

[220] 


CRYSTAL    CONSOLIDATED 

In  haste  and  with  diminished  appetite  I  rushed 
through  my  dinner,  and  a  moment  later  was  speeding 
up  the  avenue  as  fast  as  a  taxicab  could  carry  me, 
with  the  Cameron  mansion  my  destination  and  a  con- 
sultation with  Evelyn  Grayson  my  object. 

It  must  not  be  imagined  that  in  this  matter  I  ex- 
pected any  weighty  assistance  from  a  young  woman 
of  such  limited  experience;  but  she  was  practically 
alone  in  the  great  house  and  I  could  well  imagine  how 
already  reporters  must  be  vying  one  with  another  to 
wring  from  her  admissions  concerning  her  uncle. 

To  my  infinite  relief  I  found  that  she  had  returned 
the  word,  "Not  at  home,"  to  all  such  callers.  In- 
quiries from  other  sources  had  been  met  in  similar 
fashion.  Officers  of  the  company  had  called  in  per- 
son or  had  telephoned,  and  Hatch  &  Hastings  had 
been  almost  aggravatingly  insistent. 

"But,  Evelyn,"  I  said,  "this  is  all  such  a  surprise 
to  me!  I  had  no  notion  your  uncle  was  at  all  active 
in  any  corporation.  I  fancied  him  a  director,  prob- 
ably, in  a  score  or  more  of  companies,  but  that  he  was 
the  so-called  'Glass  King,'  I  never  for  a  moment  sus- 
pected. Under  the  circumstances,  he  must  have  a 
private  secretary  somewhere,  who  might  have  been 
of  inestimable  aid  to  us." 

[221] 


*He  has  a  private  secretary,  it  seems,'*  she  replied, 
"though  even  I  never  knew  it  until  I  read  it  in  the 
News,  this  evening.  I  am  sure  he  never  came  to 
Cragholt.  His  name  is  Simms, —  Howard  Simms, — 
and  he  was  interviewed  at  the  Company's  office. 
Didn't  you  see  it?" 

I  confessed  that  I  had  missed  every  evening  paper 
but  one. 

"It  was  he,  I  think,"  she  went  on,  "who,  becoming 
alarmed  at  Uncle  Robert's  long  silence,  mentioned  it 
to  some  one,  who  in  turn  spread  the  damaging  re- 
ports." 

"Then  he  is  a  very  incompetent  private  secretary," 
I  commented,  "if  not,  indeed,  a  dangerous  one.  I 
shall  make  a  point  of  seeing  Mr.  Simms  as  early  as 
possible  to-morrow.  To-night  I  am  going  to  call  on 
Tony  Hatch  —  I  have  a  nodding  acquaintance  with 
him  —  and  assure  him  that  when  I  last  saw  Robert 
Cameron  less  than  a  month  ago  he  was  in  perfect 
health,  and  that  I  am  satisfied  he  is  not  in  any  san- 
itarium or  suffering  from  any  mental  or  physical 
disorder.  If  he  approves  of  the  idea  I  shall  give  out 
a  statement  to  the  newspapers,  implying  that  your 
uncle  has  gone  on  a  little  journey  of  which  his  family 
are  entirely  cognizant,  and  that  his  return  may  be 
expected  almost  any  day.  I  think  that  ought  to  turn 

[222] 


CRYSTAL    CONSOLIDATED 

the  tide  in  Wall  Street  to-morrow.  Meanwhile,  my 
dear  Evelyn,  continue  to  be  'not  at  home.' ' 

But  neither  at  his  home  nor  at  any  of  his  clubs 
could  I  find  Mr.  Hatch,  though  I  searched  for  him 
diligently  until  long  after  midnight.  Evidently  he 
was  intent  on  evading  the  sleuth  hounds  of  the  press, 
and  had  successfully  taken  to  cover. 

And  then,  on  my  way  back  down  the  avenue,  to 
the  Loyalton,  that  happened  which  made  all  subter- 
fuge, all  tact,  all  dissembling,  unnecessary.  For  on 
the  sidewalk,  opposite  the  Cathedral,  I  found  the  best 
of  answers  to  all  the  questions  raised  by  the  rumor 
mongers, —  the  animate  refutation  of  every  disturb- 
ing waif  word. 


[228] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OPPOSITE  THE   CATHEDRAL 

t^IFTH  AVENUE  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
is  fast  asleep.  There  are  localities  in  New  York 
which  are  more  widely  awake  at  that  hour  than  at 
any  other  time  of  day,  but  the  highway  of  fashion 
is  not  one  of  them ;  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  Fiftieth 
Street,  its  repose  is  as  profound  as  at  any  point  of 
its  long,  undeviatingly  straight  course. 

For  over  an  hour  I  had  waited  within  that  sumptu- 
ous white  marble  club  edifice  of  the  plutocrats  which 
ostentatiously  punctuates  the  avenue  at  Sixtieth 
Street,  and,  tired  of  sitting,  nervous  and  disappointed, 
I  had  chosen  to  walk  down  to  my  rooms,  believing  that 
the  exercise  in  the  clear,  frosty  air  would  serve  to 
counteract,  in  a  measure  at  least,  all  three  of  these 
vexations. 

To  the  limit  of  sight  there  stretched  away  a  double, 
converging  chain  of  twin  lights  marking  the  curb 
line  for  endless  blocks,  and  illuminating  the  nearer 
sidewalk  and  roadway,  if  not  to  effulgence,  certainly 
with  a  clearly  defining  radiance.  Now  and  then  I 

[224] 


OPPOSITE    THE    CATHEDRAL 

met  a  quick-stepping  pedestrain,  usually  in  evening 
dress  with  cigar  alight;  and  at  more  or  less  brief  in- 
tervals limousined  motors,  and  taxicabs,  with  gleam- 
ing lamps,  sped  by  me  at  top  speed.  Once  a  hansom 
passed,  the  hoof -beats  of  the  hard-driven  horse  re- 
sounding jarringly  against  the  night  silence. 

At  Fifty-fourth  Street  I  cut  diagonally  across  the 
avenue  to  the  west  side,  and,  continuing  my  way 
southward,  absorbed  in  the  problems  confronting  me, 
had  been  for  a  little  quite  lost  to  encompassing  ob- 
jects. Then,  suddenly,  fearing  lest  in  my  abstrac- 
tion I  should  pass  the  street  on  which  my  rooms  were 
located,  I  aroused  myself  to  get  an  idea  of  my 
location. 

Across  the  way  the  grim  facade  of  the  Cathedral 
rising  dark  and  sullen  as  a  fortress  made  all  clear. 
But,  on  my  own  side  of  the  avenue  there  had  been  no 
such  distinguishing  mark.  The  brown  stone  dwell- 
ings, monotonously  ugly,  with  their  high  stoops  and 
balustraded  areas,  were  no  more  enlightening  than 
the  stone  flagging  of  the  sidewalk  or  the  asphalt  of  the 
roadway.  Scores  of  blocks  presented  practically  the 
same  aspect  as  this.  But  as  with  critical  gaze  I 
measured  one  after  another  of  these  combinations 
I  was  all  at  once  arrested  by  sight  of  a  tall,  bent 
figure  clutching  the  high  iron  railings  which  guarded 

15  [225] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

the  avenue  frontage  of  the  house  on  the  corner  — 
the  only  really  individual  house  in  the  row. 

My  first  rough  concept  was  that  I  had  come 
upon  incapability  resulting  from  intemperance.  At 
closer  view,  however,  I  tempered  my  judgment. 
The  possibility  of  illness  or  injury  intervened,  and  I 
paused  Samaritan-like  to  offer  succor.  The  way- 
farer was  evidently  a  man  of  middle  age,  if  I  might 
judge  from  the  contour  of  his  back,  which  was  to- 
wards me,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  struggling  to 
keep  upon  his  feet  by  sheer  muscular  hand-hold  of 
the  railing's  iron  uprights,  for  his  knees  were  bent 
threateningly  and  his  arms  were  extended  and  tense. 

Until  I  was  close  beside  him  he  gave  no  sign  of 
realizing  my  presence.  Indeed  I  think  it  was  not 
until  I  spoke  that  he  half  turned  his  head  towards 
me,  and,  for  the  first  time,  I  got  sight  of  his  features. 

Whether  or  not  I  uttered  a  word,  or  made  a  sound, 
or  stood  for  a  long  moment  silent,  I  cannot  say.  I 
know  only  that  I  doubted  my  eyes  and  questioned 
my  reason;  for,  if  these  were  not  playing  me  false, 
the  profile  thus  revealed  to  me  was  the  profile  of 
Robert  Cameron. 

To  try  to  set  down  in  detail  just  what  followed 
must  be  an  idle  effort,  with  fancy  providing  the  bulk 
of  the  ingredients.  Surprised,  amazed,  astounded 

[226] 


OPPOSITE    THE    CATHEDRAL 

even,  are  all  too  feeble  terms  to  apply  to  my  emotional 
condition.  Dazedly,  I  was  floundering  in  what 
seemed  a  veritable  sea  of  unreality.  When  the  com- 
monplaces began  to  readjust  themselves,  I  was  stand- 
ing at  the  curb,  my  arm  wound  supportingly  about 
Cameron's  waist  and  his  arm  pressing  heavy  on  my 
shoulder.  Drawing  in  to  us  was  an  empty  hansom 
cab,  provided  by  Providence,  and  hailed,  I  suppose, 
by  me,  though  I  swear  I  have  no  recollection  of  it. 

The  cabman  helped  me  to  lift  him  in,  and  at  this 
the  pity  of  his  plight  smote  me,  tempering  the  joy 
of  having  found  him,  and  quickening  within  me  a 
spirit  of  angry  retaliation  against  his  enemies.  For 
the  man  now  at  my  side  was  far  different  from  that 
man  who  had  sat  with  me  on  the  after  deck  of  the 
Sibylla,  only  four  weeks  ago.  He  was,  indeed,  it 
seemed  to  me  little  more  than  the  husk  of  the  Cameron 
I  had  known.  In  facial  conformation  the  change 
was  not  so  marked,  though  his  expression  was  pathet- 
ically at  variance  with  anything  I  had  ever  before 
seen  him  wear.  The  lines  of  his  face  were  drawn, 
as  with  pain,  and  his  eyes  were  dull  to  vacancy.  He 
lolled,  sleazily,  in  a  crumpled  heap  in  his  corner,  like  a 
spineless  manikin;  and  though  I  plied  him  eagerly 
with  a  flood  of  questions,  he  might  have  been  a  deaf 
mute  for  all  the  answers  he  accorded  me.  Once  I 

[227] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

thought  he  shook  his  head  in  negation,  but  I  was  later 
forced  to  conclude  that  this  was  involuntary,  being 
caused  by  the  roll  of  the  cab  as  one  of  its  wheels  en- 
countered a  depression  in  the  roadway. 

Yet  in  spite  of  his  sorriness  of  presence  and  de- 
meanor —  in  spite  too  of  the  tormenting  mystery  of 
his  return,  which  was  scarcely  less  baffling  than  the 
mystery  of  his  departure  —  it  was  at  least  a  relief  to 
know  that  he  was  alive  and  out  of  the  power  of  those 
that  were  bent  upon  his  harm.  Good  nursing, 
coupled  with  skilful  medical  attention,  had  just 
worked  wonders  for  me,  and  I  was  confident  that  it 
would  do  the  same  for  him ;  and  then  we  should  have 
facts  and  not  theories  to  aid  us  in  our  quest  for  the 
culprits,  and,  eventually,  in  the  administration  of 
justice  to  the  guilty. 

I  had  given  the  cabman  the  number  of  the  Cameron 
house  and  admonished  him  to  make  all  possible  speed ; 
so,  with  the  long  lash  of  the  whip  snapping  sharply 
at  brief  intervals  and  the  jaded  horse,  thus  urged, 
bounding  at  a  clumsy,  lumbering  gallop,  we  rolled 
noisily  northward.  Having  given  over  the  effort  to 
obtain  from  my  fellow  passenger  even  a  gestured  an- 
swer to  my  most  pertinent  inquiries,  I  turned  my 
mind  to  what  lay  before  us.  The  Cameron  estab- 
lishment would  doubtless  be  fast  locked  in  slumber  as 

[228] 


OPPOSITE    THE    CATHEDRAL 

well  as  otherwise,  but  I  made  small  question  of  my 
ability  to  rouse  some  of  the  servants.  My  hope,  how- 
ever, was  not  to  awaken  Evelyn.  It  could  mean  only 
a  night's  rest  lost  for  her,  for  she  could  gain  nothing 
by  seeing  her  uncle  at  this  hour,  considering  his  con- 
dition. 

I  was  still  busy  planning  when  a  mighty  hand  on 
the  lines  brought  our  horse  to  his  haunches,  and  our- 
selves nearly  out  through  the  suddenly  parted  apron ; 
and  the  Cameron  residence  loomed  massive  and  dark 
on  our  right. 

As  I  stepped  to  the  sidewalk  the  driver  descended, 
too,  but  I  motioned  him  back. 

"Never  mind,  thank  you,"  I  said.  "I  '11  get  some 
one  from  inside  to  help  carry  him."  And  in  a  mo- 
ment my  thumb  was  on  the  push-button  and  faintly 
there  came  back  to  me  through  heavy  double  doors  the 
far-off  echo  of  the  bell,  jarring  against  the  silence 
of  the  great  house. 

The  promptness  with  which  chains  fell  and  bolts 
were  drawn  surprised  me.  And  yet,  I  suppose,  it  was 
merely  an  evidence  of  the  perfect  management  of  an 
establishment  wherein  every  contingency  is  provided 
against.  A  footman,  as  irreproachably  liveried  and 
groomed  as  though  the  time  were  midday  instead 
of  after  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  greeted  me 

[229] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

with  becoming  imperturbability.  I  recognized  him 
as  one  of  the  men  from  Cragholt,  and  called  him  by 
name. 

"Stephen,"  I  said,  with  an  effort  to  disguise  the 
excitement  with  which  my  every  pulse  was  throbbing, 
"your  master  is  outside  in  a  cab.  He  is  very  weak 
and  will  need  assistance.  Get  another  man  to  aid 
me,  and  then  awaken  Mr.  Checkabeedy  and  Louis. 
And  make  haste.  No,  I  can't  come  in ;  I  '11  wait  out- 
side." He  turned  away  in  obedience  to  my  directions, 
but  I  checked  him.  "And,  Stephen,"  I  charged,  "no 
word  to  any  one  else,  as  you  value  your  position;  es- 
pecially no  word  to  Miss  Grayson." 

I  marvelled  at  the  man's  preserved  unemotion. 
His  "Very  good,  sir,"  was  uttered  with  all  the  stolidity 
which  marks  a  response  to  the  commonplace;  and  yet 
I  knew  that  he  was  fully  conscious  of  the  eventful- 
ness  of  this  late  and  unlooked-for  home-coming.  And 
the  footman  who  joined  me  a  few  minutes  later  was 
not  less  well-trained. 

Together,  he  and  I  lifted  Cameron  from  the  han- 
som and  carried  him  up  the  broad  flight  of  granite 
steps,  between  the  massive  guarding  lions,  and  placed 
him  in  a  great  chair  in  the  hall,  before  the  wide,  sculp- 
tured fireplace.  And  though  this  would  probably 
prove  the  most  exciting  topic  of  the  servants'  hall  for 

[230] 


OPPOSITE    THE    CATHEDRAL 

weeks  to  come,  he  gave  not  the  smallest  sign  that  he 
was  taking  part  in  other  than  the  usual. 

Checkabeedy,  the  butler,  however,  though  no  less 
perfect  a  servitor,  was  more  privileged;  and  Louis, 
volatile  as  the  most  characteristic  of  his  countrymen, 
collapsed  utterly,  without  effort,  apparently,  at  any 
restraint  whatever.  The  former's  interest  was  evi- 
denced in  a  commiseratingly  lugubrious  visage  and  a 
few  blunt  questions,  but  the  Frenchman  wept  and 
sobbed  in  wordless  sympathy.  And  I  had  it  not  in 
my  heart  to  blame  either,  for  a  more  pitiful  picture 
than  the  one  presented  by  the  restored  Cameron  as  he 
sat  there  in  his  own  spacious  hall,  gazing  with  lack- 
lustre eyes  at  the  dead  and  dying  embers  on  the  hearth 
before  him,  I  hope  never  to  see. 

The  butler,  ruddy  and  rotund,  and  looking  for  all 
the  world  like  a  well-fed  monk,  for  he  wore  a  bathrobe 
of  sombre  hue  and  his  crown  was  barer  than  any 
shaven  tonsure,  stared  for  a  moment  in  sad  silence. 
Then,  turning  to  me,  he  asked: 

"But  what  has  happened  to  Mr.  Cameron,  sir?" 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you,  Checkabeedy,"  was  my 
unguarded  reply.  "I  wish  he  could  tell  us  himself." 

"But  he  is  so  wasted,  sir!  And  his  clothes.  I 
never  saw  Mr.  Cameron  in  such  clothes." 

It  was  quite  true.     They  were  of  what  is  called,  I 

[281] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

believe,  a  pepper-and-salt  mixture,  coarse  of  texture 
and  ill-cut,  yet  not  much  worn.  The  knees  of  the 
trousers,  however,  were  soiled  with  the  grime  of  the 
streets.  It  was  obvious  that  he  had  fallen. 

"He  does  not  recognize  us,"  Checkabeedy  went  on, 
"and  still  he  is  conscious.  May  I  ask  you,  sir,  where 
you  brought  him  from?" 

I  chose  to  ignore  the  question,  in  sudden  realization 
of  the  necessity  of  caution. 

"And  he  has  been  missing  a  month,  they  say,  sir. 
Is  that  true,  Mr.  Clyde?" 

"Missing!"  I  repeated.  "Who  says  he  has  been 
missing?" 

"The  servants  all  say  so,  sir." 

"Then  the  servants  must  get  rid  of  the  idea,  at 
once,"  I  said,  sharply.  "Mr.  Cameron  has  merely 
been  out  of  town  for  a  while.  He  went  away  for  his 
health,  and  now  he  has  returned,  benefited.  Do  you 
understand,  Checkabeedy?  He  has  returned,  bene- 
fited. And  now,  you  and  Louis  will  get  him  to  his 
room,  while  I  telephone  for  Dr.  Massey." 

Checkabeedy  bowed,  assenting,  and  Louis,  still 
whimpering,  wiped  his  eyes. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  the  physician  left 
his  patient  and  joined  me  in  the  library  downstairs. 
His  face  was  very  grave. 

[232] 


"I  have  examined  Mr.  Cameron  thoroughly,"  he 
said,  "and  I  can  assure  you  that  he  is  not  seriously 
injured." 

The  phrase  opened  up  a  new  line  of  thought  to  me. 

"Seriously  injured!"  I  repeated.  "I  don't  under- 
stand, Doctor.  Do  you  mean  that  — 

"I  mean,"  he  interrupted,  "that  the  blow  on  the 
back  of  his  head  caused  no  fracture." 

"Then  he  was  struck?" 

"Undoubtedly.  Probably  with  a  sandbag.  Hence 
his  present  dazed  condition.  Had  the  blow  been  de- 
livered with  more  force,  it  might  have  resulted  in 
complete  loss  of  memory.  You  have  heard,  of  course, 
of  instances  where  men  have  forgotten  even  their  own 
names?" 

I  nodded. 

"Mr.  Cameron  will  regain  his  memory.  It  *s 
merely  a  temporary  matter.  I  have  telephoned  for  a 
man  nurse  for  him  —  one  who  understands  such  cases. 
He  will  be  here  in  twenty  minutes.  At  present  Mr. 
Cameron  is  sleeping.  I  am  in  hopes  that  when  he 
awakens  his  mind  will  be  comparatively  clear." 

He  was  about  to  bid  me  good-night  when  I  checked 
him. 

"Doctor,"  I  said,  "I  am  glad  to  find  you  so  opti- 
mistic. Before  you  go  I  want  you  to  write  me  a 

[23S] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

bulletin  of  Mr.  Cameron's  condition  and  sign  it.  I 
want  no  mention  in  it  of  the  injury,  since  it  is  not 
serious.  If  possible,  I  would  suggest  that  you  use 
the  word  'indisposition'  and  be  sure  to  employ  the 
'temporary'  you  called  into  play  a  moment  ago." 

Dr.  Massey  gladly  acceded.  Seated  at  Cameron's 
writing  table  he  scribbled  a  bulletin  of  even  more  en- 
couraging and  confident  tenor  than  I  had  indicated. 
And  I  used  it  to  turn  the  tide  of  speculation  in  Crystal 
Consolidated. 

But  neither  the  spoken  nor  the  written  words  of 
the  physician  held  for  me  any  considerable  measure 
of  solace.  My  friend's  condition  was  desperate.  I 
knew  it  and  my  heart  ached  for  him ;  but  it  ached  more 
for  Evelyn,  his  ward,  who  loved  him,  and  who  must 
be  given  the  gladness  of  good  news  only  to  be  crucified 
the  next  moment  on  the  cross  of  anxiety. 


[234] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THREE   PROMISES 

VJEED  I  say  that  I  did  not  sleep  that  night?  It 
was  five  o'clock  when  I  left  Cameron's,  after  a 
talk  with  the  nurse,  and  I  promised  to  return  in  an 
hour.  The  interval  was  devoted  to  a  cold  bath,  a 
shave,  and  a  change  of  clothing  at  my  rooms;  and  at 
six  I  was  back  again,  talking  once  more  with  Checka- 
beedy  who  was  personally  serving  me  with  coffee  in 
the  breakfast  room. 

"Between  you  and  me,"  I  had  begun,  "there  is  small 
need  of  concealment  in  this  matter  of  Mr.  Cameron's 
disappearance  and  return,  his  coming  as  remarkable 
and  mysterious  as  his  going.  I  think  I  am  experi- 
enced enough  to  understand  that  such  an  affair  as  this 
cannot  be  kept  entirely  secret  —  especially  not  from 
Mr.  Cameron's  servants  —  and  it  is  better,  Checka- 
beedy,  that  you  should  understand  it  thoroughly.  I 
can  fancy  the  distorted  story  that  has  been  circulated 
below  stairs.  That  more  rumors,  wide  of  the  truth, 
have  not  leaked  out  and  gained  press  publicity,  speaks 
very  well  for  you  and  your  staff,  and  I  congratulate 

[235] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

you  on  your  loyalty  and  good  judgment.  All  I  ask 
now  is  that  you  will  continue  to  be  guarded  in  what 
you  say.  A  single  unadvised  word  might  interfere 
very  materially  with  our  efforts  to  trace  the  guilty 
ones  and  bring  them  to  punishment." 

And  then  I  told  him  as  much  as  I  deemed  wise  of 
the  facts  of  the  abduction,  of  my  chance  finding  of 
his  master  the  previous  night,  and  of  my  anxiety  con- 
cerning his  present  condition. 

"And  above  all  things,  Checkabeedy,"  I  added  in 
conclusion,  "don't  look  solemn  and  distressed  when 
Miss  Evelyn  is  present.  Before  her,  no  matter  how 
we  really  feel,  we  must  appear  confident." 

A  little  later  the  morning  papers  were  brought  in, 
and  I  scanned  one  after  another  in  search  of  some 
new  twist  or  turn  of  the  story  of  the  previous  after- 
noon. The  more  conservative  journals  were  inclined 
to  make  light  of  the  scare.  "Mr.  Cameron,"  said  one, 
"ceased  to  be  active  in  the  affairs  of  Crystal  Consoli- 
dated over  two  years  ago.  If  he  be  ill,  which  is  by 
no  means  certain,  the  fact  can  have  but  little  real 
significance  so  far  as  the  company  of  which  he  is  the 
largest  shareholder  is  concerned.  It  may  be  stated 
on  the  best  authority  that  Mr.  Cameron's  shares  have 
never  been  used  speculatively,  and  that  even  in  the 
event  of  his  death  they  could  not  by  any  possibility 

[236] 


THREE    PROMISES 

come  on  the  market,  for  the  reason  that  he  has  pro- 
vided a  trust  fund,  by  will,  for  the  benefit  of  his  niece, 
and  that  they  are  a  part  of  that  fund." 

The  sensational  press,  of  course,  still  insisted  that 
the  Glass  King  was  in  a  New  England  sanitarium, 
though  they  had  failed  to  locate  the  institution.  De- 
spite my  alarm  I  smiled  at  the  thought  of  how  their 
afternoon  editions  would  have  to  eat  the  leak,  as  the 
Welsh  say. 

The  papers  finished,  I  grew  restless.  I  desired 
constant  news  from  the  sick  room,  and  lacking  it,  I 
roamed  about  the  house,  in  nervous  unease,  my  brain 
busy  with  conjecture,  forming  one  theory  after  an- 
other, and  dismissing  each  as  readily.  The  situation 
was  a  tantalism.  The  answer  to  all  the  questions 
which  had  absorbed  me  for  weeks  lay  dormant  in  the 
brain  of  the  man  sleeping  beyond  that  closed  door. 
Theories,  therefore,  were  now  more  futile  than  ever. 
The  one  accomplishment  to  be  asked  was  the  arousing 
of  an  intellect,  the  stirring  of  a  memory.  Dr.  Mas- 
sey  had  promised  that  when  Cameron  awakened  men- 
tal clarity  would  be  restored,  that  he  would  be  able 
to  answer  questions  with  intelligence. 

It  is  hard  to  explain  why  I  doubted  this.  I  think 
it  must  have  been  something  I  saw  in  those  dull,  vacu- 
ous eyes,  when  I  first  looked  into  them  under  the  pale 

[237] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

light  of  the  white-globed  electric  street  lamps.  If  I 
had  been  forced  to  identify  Cameron  by  those  eyes 
alone,  I  should  have  said  that  this  man  was  not  he. 
They  were  so  different,  lacking  all  the  expression  of 
the  Cameron  eyes  I  knew.  And  yet  I  made  no  ques- 
tion as  to  his  identity.  I  knew  him,  despite  this; 
knew  that  strong  chin  and  jaw,  which  spelled  deter- 
mination in  two  syllables;  knew  his  broad,  generous 
nose,  and  his  high  intellectual  forehead.  These 
points  of  recognition  were  so  convincing,  that  I  could 
afford  to  ignore  the  eyes  I  had  never  seen  before  and 
the  wasted  frame  and  the  shrunken,  unsteady  legs. 

At  brief  intervals  I  consulted  the  clocks.  It  was 
marvellous  how  the  time  dragged.  And  that  nurse! 
Would  he  never  have  an  errand  outside  the  suite?  I 
had  told  him  I  should  spend  the  morning  in  the  house, 
and  that  I  wished  to  be  informed  of  the  slightest 
change  in  his  patient.  I  must  conclude,  therefore, 
that  Cameron  was  still  sleeping,  that  Bryan  was  still 
watching. 

From  the  fact  that  Evelyn  had  not  yet  appeared 
I  drew  a  measure  of  consolation.  If  I  could  have 
tidings  of  even  the  slightest  improvement  in  Cameron 
before  meeting  her,  it  would  aid  me  in  the  assumption 
of  confidence  upon  which  I  had  determined. 

At  ten  minutes  past  eight  I  was  searching  the 

[238] 


THREE    PROMISES 

encyclopaedias  in  the  library  for  information  on  the 
subject  of  brain  concussion.  Already  I  had  followed 
the  trail  through  three  volumes  from  "Brain"  to 
"Nervous  System"  and  from  "Nervous  System" 
to  "Concussion,"  when  an  opening  door  caused  me  to 
turn  eagerly.  Mr.  Bryan,  the  nurse,  in  a  white  uni- 
form such  as  hospital  doctors  wear,  stood  on  the 
threshold.  The  next  moment  I  had  risen  from  my 
crouching  position  before  the  bookcase  and  had  met 
him  midway  across  the  room  with  anxious  inquiry. 

"Mr.  Cameron  awoke  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago," 
he  told  me.  "His  power  of  speech  has  returned.  He 
asked  me  where  he  was  and  what  had  happened.  I 
told  him  he  was  in  his  own  house,  and  that  he  had  met 
with  an  accident." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  hurried  him.  "And  what  then?  Did 
he  inquire  for  any  one?" 

"No.  For  all  of  a  minute  he  lay  looking  about  the 
room  without  another  word.  Then,  in  a  puzzled  way, 
he  repeated:  'My  own  house!'  and  asked,  'Where 
is  this  house  ?'  And  I  told  him.  He  did  not  seem  to 
recognize  the  room  at  all." 

"Is  he  still  awake?" 

"Oh,  no.  Dr.  Massey  left  directions  that  he  was 
to  be  given  some  nourishment  —  a  raw  egg  and  milk 
—  and  then  another  powder  to  make  him  sleep.  He 

[239] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

turned  on  his  side  after  that,  and  in  less  than  three 
minutes  was  in  a  deep  slumber  once  more." 

I  was  annoyed  that  I  had  not  been  called.  I  let 
myself  hope  that  sight  of  me  might  possibly  have 
stirred  his  memory  even  though  the  familiar  objects 
of  his  bedchamber  failed.  I  said  as  much  to  the  short, 
broad-shouldered  nurse,  whose  twinkling  eyes  were  in 
violent  contrast  with  his  thin-lipped,  grave,  deter- 
mined mouth. 

"Dr.  Massey's  orders  were  that  for  twelve  hours 
no  one  should  be  admitted  to  the  room,"  was  his  un- 
answerable rejoinder. 

"Which  means  not  until  after  five  o'clock,  this 
evening?" 

"Exactly,  sir.  But  I  shall  report  to  you  every- 
thing he  says,  as  nearly  as  possible  in  his  own 
words." 

"Very  well,"  I  said.  "I  shall  spend  the  day  here." 
My  tone  conveyed  dismissal  and  I  fear  it  still 
smacked  of  annoyance.  Mr.  Bryan,  however,  gave 
no  sign  of  resentment.  His  eyes  were  still  kindly 
merry,  his  mouth  still  inspired  reliance.  He  turned 
towards  the  door,  saying, 

"He  '11  probably  sleep  four  hours  at  least,  Mr. 
Clyde.  If  you  wish  to  go  out,  there  's  no  reason  why 
you  should  n't." 

[240] 


THREE    PROMISES 

I  meant  to  reply.  My  lips  were  already  framing 
a  sentence,  when  a  tableau  checked  me. 

Evelyn  Grayson  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 
She  wore  a  clinging  house  gown  of  pale  blue,  cut  low 
at  the  throat,  and  bordered  with  a  deep  collar  of  Irish 
lace.  The  rose  flush  of  youth  and  health  tinted  the 
cream  of  her  complexion  and  a  shaft  of  sunlight  from 
a  near  window  made  a  glittering  golden  nimbus  of  her 
hair.  With  wide,  startled  eyes  she  was  gazing  at 
Bryan,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  at  the  snowy  linen  duck 
in  which  he  was  clad,  and  which  must  have  held  for 
her  a  perplexing  significance. 

The  nurse  had  halted,  deferentially  standing  aside 
at  sight  of  the  girl  whose  young  beauty  seemed  to 
dazzle  him. 

For  a  moment  the  stillness  and  silence  were  abso- 
lute. Then  Evelyn  turning  her  gaze  upon  me  ad- 
vanced quickly,  with  a  little  questioning  cry, 

"Philip!" 

"You  're  surprised  to  find  me  here,"  I  interpreted, 
with  hands  outstretched. 

"And  to  — "  she  began,  laying  her  fingers  against 
my  palms. 

"To  find  a  nurse  here,  as  well,"  I  finished  for  her. 
"Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Bry  — "  But  when  I  would 
have  presented  him  he  had  already  gone. 

18  [241] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"But  who  is  ill?"  she  questioned  in  nervous  haste. 
"What  — " 

It  were  well,  I  thought,  to  have  the  revelation  over 
and  done  with  as  speedily  as  possible. 

"Your  uncle.  I  brought  him  home  at  two  o'clock 
this  morning." 

I  do  not  know  what  I  expected,  but  I  am  sure  I 
was  not  prepared  for  what  ensued.  Her  fingers,  sud- 
denly releasing  themselves  from  my  fond  but  feeble 
hold,  clutched  wildly  at  the  lapels  of  my  coat  for 
support,  as  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  sobs.  In  vain 
I  made  efforts  to  comfort  and  quiet  her.  She  became 
hysterical.  She  laughed  and  cried  by  turns,  while 
I,  making  bold  to  regard  her  as  a  sorrowing  child 
rather  than  the  woman  she  was,  held  her  close  and 
murmured  all  the  soothing,  encouraging  words  and 
phrases  I  could  conjure. 

"I  —  I  —  am  so  glad,"  she  whispered  at  last,  her 
big  liquid  blue  eyes  swimming,  her  fair  face  wet  with 
the  torrent  of  her  emotion.  "I  —  I  —  am  so  happy." 

Presently  I  placed  her  in  a  great,  cavernous 
leathern  chair,  and  lent  her  my  handkerchief, —  as- 
sisted her,  indeed  —  to  remove  the  evidences  of  her 
tumultuous  joy.  After  which  I  sat  down  opposite 
her  and  answered  a  hundred  questions,  still  marvel- 
ling at  the  contrariety  of  the  feminine  temperament 

[242] 


THREE    PROMISES 

which  defies  disaster  dry-eyed  and  over  good  tidings 
is  like  Niobe  all  tears. 

Evelyn's  emotions  alone  considered,  it  was,  there- 
fore, just  as  well  that  Cameron  had  not  returned 
robust  and  of  sane  mind.  Her  rejoicing  undiluted 
might  have  resulted  in  nervous  breakdown.  As  it 
was,  the  mere  fact  that  he  was  weak  and  a  trifle  dis- 
traught —  which  was  the  mildly  equivocal  way  in 
which  I  softened  the  truth  for  her  —  had  for  her 
fortitude  the  revivifying  potency  of  a  tonic.  It  so 
balanced  her  joy  with  anxiety  that  she  grew  strong  in 
surprisingly  short  space. 

"I  do  not  see  why  a  nurse  is  at  all  necessary,"  she 
objected,  at  once.  "I  shall  nurse  him,  myself.  Louis 
and  I  can  do  everything  that  is  required." 

"But  Dr.  Massey — "  I  began.  Whereupon  she 
interrupted  me: 

"Dr.  Massey  probably  thinks  I  am  a  foolish,  frivo- 
lous child.  I  shall  nurse  Uncle  Robert  even  if  I  have 
to  dismiss  Dr.  Massey  and  get  another  physician." 

There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  opposing  her 
at  this  time,  so  I  held  my  non-committal  peace,  doubt- 
ing, nevertheless,  the  practicability  of  her  proposition. 
But  to  her  next  proposal  I  must  needs  interpose  the 
obstructive  truth. 

"Come,"  she  commanded,  brushing  back  from  her 

[243] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

temples  with  both  hands  the  encroaching  golden  halo, 
with  the  gesture  of  one  who  prepares  for  conquest, 
wiping  away,  as  it  were,  the  last  clinging  vestiges  of 
her  emotional  weakness.  "Come,  let  us  go  to  him, 
together." 

She  was  on  her  feet  before  I  could  restrain  her. 

"Not  now,  Evelyn,"  I  said,  quietly,  and,  at  the 
risk  of  seeming  rudeness,  sat  still. 

"But,  why?"  And  there  was  a  hint  of  suspicion 
in  the  look  she  gave  me. 

"He  is  asleep,"  I  told  her.  And  when  she  had  re- 
laxed into  the  great  chair  again,  I  added,  temporizing, 
"Mr.  Bryan  will  let  us  know  when  he  wakens." 

Her  disappointment  was  undisguised,  and  in  secret 
I  sympathized  with  her.  She  was  experiencing  some- 
thing of  that  which  had  come  to  me  when  Bryan 
had  refused  me  converse  with  his  patient.  But  it 
were  better  to  divert  than  to  commiserate,  and  so  I 
said, 

"This  is  the  day  I  am  to  hear  from  Miss  Clement." 

"Is  it?"  she  asked,  indifferently,  the  disappointment 
still  rankling.  "I  did  n't  know." 

"She  has  promised  me  important  information  be- 
fore three  o'clock.  If  she  keeps  her  word,  this  whole 
perplexing  mystery  may  very  shortly  be  cleared  up." 

"Is  n't  that  what  you  would  call  supererogatory?" 

[£44] 


THREE    PROMISES 

she  asked,  smiling.  "I  should  think  Uncle  Robert 
could  tell  all  that  is  needed,  now,  himself." 

I  was  at  a  loss  for  a  moment  how  to  answer  her; 
and  in  that  moment  the  telephone  broke  in,  and  did 
away  with  the  necessity  of  response. 

The  instrument  was  on  the  writing  table  at  my 
elbow,  and  with  a  "Shall  I?"  to  Evelyn,  I  took  the 
receiver  from  the  hook  and  bent  to  the  transmitter. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "Miss  Grayson  is  here.  Who  is  it, 
please?"  I  thought  I  recognized  Miss  Clement's 
voice,  and  I  was  not  wrong.  But,  after  all,  it  was  I 
she  wanted.  She  had  called  up  my  rooms  and  my 
office,  and,  unable  to  get  me  at  either  place,  had  taken 
the  chance  that  Evelyn  might  aid  her  to  my  discovery. 

"You  have  learned  something?"  I  asked,  disguis- 
ing as  well  as  I  could  my  burning  interest.  If  possi- 
ble, I  would  keep  from  Evelyn  the  least  suggestion 
of  how  vitally  important  I  regarded  the  news  I 
hoped  for. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  explain  it  to  you,"  came 
Miss  Clement's  reply.  "I  was  on  the  verge  of  what 
I  am  sure  was  a  most  pregnant  revelation.  I  was  to 
be  given  names  and  dates  and  circumstances.  I  had 
been  promised  these  by  one  in  whom  I  put  the  great- 
est reliance.  And  now  I  am  asked  to  wait  another 
twenty-four  hours.  Something  has  happened,  my 

[245] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

confidant  tells  me;  something  puzzling  and  utterly 
unexpected,  and  those  who  know  most  of  the  matter 
are  now  most  at  sea." 

Evelyn  must  have  seen  me  smile.  It  was  quite 
evident  to  me  that  Miss  Clement  was  in  touch  with 
some'  one  well  informed,  but  it  was  not  that  which 
provoked  the  smile.  I  smiled  because  I  felt  that 
Cameron  in  some  way  had  outwitted  his  captors  and 
gained  his  freedom.  This  was  the  unexpected  hap- 
pening which  had  thrown  the  villainous  slant-eyed 
camp  into  confusion,  and  I  rejoiced  at  my  friend's 
intrepidity. 

"And  so,"  I  said  to  Miss  Clement,  "you  wish  me 
to  wait  another  day?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  worth  while,"  she  answered. 

"And  I  do,  too,"  I  told  her.  "I  don't  suppose 
you've  seen  an  afternoon  paper,  have  you?"  I  went 
on.  "Well,  they  contain  some  news  of  interest. 
They  say  that  Mr.  Cameron  came  home  last  night, 
and  for  once,  at  least,  they  tell  what  is  very  nearly 
the  truth." 

If  sincerity  ever  carried  over  a  wire  it  carried  then 
in  Miss  Clement's  congratulations,  and  there  was 
something  almost  divine  in  her  forbearance  to  ask  for 
particulars.  She  congratulated  Evelyn,  too,  and 
promised  to  come  to  see  her,  soon ;  and  then  once  more 

[246] 


THREE    PROMISES 

she  assured  me  that  she  would  yet  learn  everything 
we  could  possibly  care  to  know. 

"The  Chinese,"  she  added,  "are  a  deliberate  race, 
Mr.  Clyde.  They  refuse  to  be  hurried.  But  eventu- 
ally we  shall  have  our  answers." 

With  Evelyn  beside  me  the  hours  no  longer 
dragged.  We  talked  unceasingly;  reviewing  every- 
thing from  the  receipt  of  the  first  letter;  conjecturing 
on  each  of  the  score  of  little  problems  making  up  the 
one  great  mystery,  but  arriving  at  nothing  definite; 
adding,  if  changing  conditions  at  all,  to  our  own  con- 
fusion. 

And  if,  in  passing,  at  intervals,  where  opportunity 
offered,  I  spoke  tender  words  and  pleaded  for  a  defi- 
nite, or  at  least  a  closer,  more  intimate  understanding 
between  us,  who  shall  say  that  I  was  to  blame?  She 
was  never  more  lovely,  never  more  appealing  than 
she  was  that  morning ;  and  I  begged  for  an  admission 
of  a  sentiment  above  and  beyond  the  mere  sisterly 
regard  to  which  hitherto  she  had  persisted  in  limiting 
her  expressed  affection  for  me. 

More  than  once  I  had  read  in  her  eyes  —  without 
unseemly  conceit,  I  trust  I  may  be  permitted  this  as- 
sertion —  what  I  now  asked  in  lip  avowal.  But  there 
seemed  to  be  with  her  a  notion  that  the  occasion  was 
ill-suited  to  my  plea. 

[£47] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

"Philip,"  she  said,  "dear  Philip,  I  care  for  you  very 
much;  almost  as  much  as  I  care  for  Uncle  Robert. 
You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  and  very  good  to 
him,  and  if  I  could  tell  you  that  I  love  you  in  the  way 
you  ask,  I  — "  And  there  she  hesitated  a  shade  of  a 
second.  "Even  if  I  could  tell  you,"  she  corrected, 
"I  wouldn't  tell  you  now.  It  is  not  stubbornness, 
Philip.  It  is  just  a  woman's  way.  Ask  me  again, 
when  Uncle  Robert  is  well,  and  all  this  horrible  night- 
mare has  passed.  Promise  me  that  you  will  ask  me 
again!" 

"Never  fear,"  I  returned,  "I  '11  ask  you." 

"And  promise  me,  too,"  she  added,  "that  until  all 
the  skies  are  clear  once  more,  you  will  not  mention  the 
subject." 

I  was  on  the  verge  of  promising;  not  because  it 
would  be  an  easy  promise  to  keep,  for  I  knew  it  would 
be  very  difficult ;  but  because  I  could  deny  her  nothing. 
I  was  on  the  verge,  I  say,  when  the  library  door 
opened,  and  Louis,  pale  and  excited,  and  so  in  haste 
that  he  had  not  paused  to  knock,  was  exclaiming, 

"Monsieur  Cameron!  Pardon!  Mais,  enfin,  etes- 
vous  prete?" 

A  score  of  fears  springing  instantly  to  birth  within 
us,  Evelyn  and  I  were  on  our  feet  before  the  speech, 
rapidly  delivered  as  it  was,  was  finished.  Were  we 

[248] 


THREE    PROMISES 

ready!  We  evidenced  our  readiness  in  no  such  voice- 
less things  as  words. 

Louis  stood  aside  for  us  to  pass,  and  as  I  went  by 
him,  I  asked,  under  my  breath: 

"What  is  it,  Louis?" 

"Ah !"  he  whispered.  "Monsieur  Cameron  is  talking 
in  the  strange  tongue  which  neither  Monsieur  Bryan 
nor  I  myself  can  understand." 


[249] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   PANG  OF  DISILLUSION 

sick  room  was  dark.  So  dark  that  for  a  lit- 
tle, until  our  eyes  accustomed  themselves  to  it, 
we  could  barely  distinguish  objects.  But  our  ears 
required  no  attuning.  Even  in  the  passageway,  sepa- 
rated by  a  heavy  mahogany  door,  we  had  hint  of  what 
was  going  on  within;  and  as  we  entered,  a  hoarse 
tirade  smote  us  in  the  gloom,  like  an  assault  from 
ambush. 

To  us  both  the  tone  and  words  were  alike  unfa- 
miliar. In  inflection  and  modulation  the  voice  was 
strange.  And  the  uttered  sounds  were  a  coarse,  hor- 
rid jargon.  Once  I  thought  I  detected  an  English 
oath,  but  I  was  not  sure. 

Evelyn  clutched  my  hand  and  I  could  feel  against 
me  the  tremble  of  her  slim  young  body.  Gladly  I 
would  have  spared  her  this  ordeal,  but  I  had  been  no 
less  unprepared  than  she.  And  now,  as  gradually 
shapes  defined  themselves  less  dimly  in  the  gloom,  the 
horror  grew ;  and,  held  by  it,  speechless,  inert,  I  stood 

[250] 


THE     PANG    OF    DISILLUSION 

where  I  had  paused, —  the  quivering  girl  very  close 
beside  me, —  staring,  listening,  wondering. 

It  was  a  large  room,  lofty  of  ceiling,  with  high 
windows,  across  which  heavy  curtains  were  drawn; 
and  the  only  light  was  that  which  stole  between  these 
hangings  or  filtered  through  three  dark,  richly- 
colored,  glass  medallions  set  in  a  side  wall. 

Cameron's  bed,  a  massive,  ornately  carved  four- 
poster,  was  hung  with  fringed  and  embroidered  vel- 
vet, and  in  the  dusk  of  the  chamber  it  took  on  the 
sombre  likeness  of  a  catafalque,  adding  to  the  eerie 
seeming  a  touch  of  the  funereal.  Incongruously 
from  the  shadowy  midst  of  it  came  that  ranted  rigma- 
role of  strange  words,  now  high  pitched,  now  bass, 
now  guttural. 

What  had  at  first  seemed  a  moving  gray  patch  had 
developed  by  degrees  into  the  white,  night-robed,  sit- 
ting figure  of  the  invalid,  swaying  excitedly,  with 
arms  extended  in  ceaseless  gestures.  For  a  long  mo- 
ment this  uncanny  object  had  held  my  gaze,  but  pres- 
ently near  the  bed's  foot,  I  descried  Bryan's  white 
uniform  and  the  sight  brought  a  measure  of  relief. 
In  response  to  a  beckoning  head-tilt,  the  nurse  joined 
us. 

"I  thought  you  had  better  come,"  he  whispered, 

[251] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

quite  calmly.  "I  thought  possibly  you  might  under- 
stand what  he  is  saying." 

"But  I  don't,"  I  whispered  back.  "If  it 's  a  real 
language  I  never  heard  it.  What  do  you  imagine  it 
is?" 

"I  have  an  idea  it 's  Chinese,"  he  answered.  "It 
sounds  like  the  stuff  you  hear  at  a  Chinese  theatre, 
and  I  caught  two  or  three  words  of  pidgin-English, 
just  before  you — "  He  broke  off  suddenly,  and 
plucked  at  my  sleeve.  "There!"  he  murmured. 
"Did  you  hear  that?  Maskee.  That  was  plain 
enough.  It  means  'never  mind.*  A  little  while  ago 
he  was  evidently  trying  to  hurry  some  one.  It  was 
chop-chop  about  every  other  sentence." 

Evelyn's  eyes  shone  luminous  in  the  gloom. 

"Can't  you  give  him  something  to  quiet  him?"  she 
begged.  "It 's  awful  to  let  him  go  on  like  this.  It 's 
cruel.  He  seems  to  be  in  such  distress." 

"I  can,  of  course,"  Bryan  returned.  "But  I 
thought  Mr.  Clyde  was  anxious  to  have  everything  he 
said  reported,  and  — " 

"Oh,  do  give  him  something,"  she  insisted. 

Bryan  left  us  to  obey.  I  saw  him  stop  at  a  table 
near  the  bed,  and  in  the  half  light  I  caught  the  glint 
of  a  hypodermic  syringe.  But,  as  if  scenting  his 
purpose,  Cameron's  voice  lulled  abruptly.  For  a 

[252] 


THE     PANG    OF    DISILLUSION 

second  or  two  he  was  quiet,  and  then,  before  any  one 
of  us,  I  think,  suspected  his  purpose,  he  turned,  sud- 
denly, swiftly,  and  slipped  from  beneath  the  bed 
clothes  to  the  floor  where  he  stood  erect,  with  arms 
upraised  and  tensed,  shouting  in  shrill,  strident  key 
what  seemed  to  be  orders,  directed  not  at  one  but  at 
a  horde. 

The  great  bed  separated  him  from  both  Bryan  and 
myself,  but  we  skirted  it  in  haste,  and  came  upon  him 
before  he  had  taken  more  than  a  single  step.  As  we 
confronted  him,  his  arms  lowered  and  his  clenched 
fists  shot  forward  threateningly.  But  a  far  more 
startling  happening  at  this  juncture  was  his  abandon- 
ment of  his  jargon,  and  his  adoption  of  intelligible 
English. 

"Below!"  he  yelled,  fiercely.  "Below,  you  yellow 
dogs!  Below,  I  say!  Every  cur's  son  of  you!  Be- 
low!" 

Despite  his  truculence  he  was  not  difficult  to  mas- 
ter. Together  Bryan  and  I  grappled  him;  in 
another  moment  we  had  him  flat  on  his  bed  once  more, 
and  the  nurse  was  pressing  home  the  piston  of  that 
little  shining  instrument  of  glass  and  silver  which  I 
had  so  recently  seen  him  take  up  from  the  medicine 
table. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  patient  rolled  about,  rest- 

[253] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

lessly,  muttering  strange  oaths,  mingled  with  suppli- 
ant murmurs.  And  to  me  this  was  the  most  sadly 
trying  part  of  the  incident.  I  would  gladly  have  re- 
treated, but  Evelyn  begged  me  to  wait. 

"Just  until  he  is  quiet,"  she  pleaded;  "just  until  he 
falls  asleep." 

At  length  he  lay  quite  still  and  we  thought  from 
his  regular  breathing  he  had  succumbed  to  the 
narcotic,  and  so  were  about  to  go,  when  he  started 
up  with  a  little  feeble  cry,  low-voiced,  but  clearly 
distinct. 

"No,  no,  for  God's  sake,  not  that!  I  didn't  kill 
them.  I  swear  I  did  n't  kill  them.  It  was  an  acci- 
dent. She  stove  on  a  rock.  I  —  I  —  did  n't,  I  say ! 
I  didn't  — I—" 

His  voice  trailed  into  silence.  He  dropped  back, 
heavily,  upon  the  pillows.  He  slept. 

It  is  one  thing  to  have  your  faith  in  a  friend  shaken. 
That  is  serious  enough  in  all  conscience.  But  your 
faith  may  tremble,  and  sway  and  rock,  and  still  there 
is  always  the  possibility  of  its  being  resteadied  and 
made  firm  again  by  explanation  —  by  extenuation 
even.  It  is  quite  another  thing  to  have  your  faith 
toppled  headlong,  by  the  snatching  away  of  the  last 
vestige  of  support,  the  last  sliver  of  underpinning. 

[254] 


THE     PANG    OF    DISILLUSION 

That  is  more  than  serious.  It  is  calamitous ;  it  is 
catastrophic;  it  is  tragic. 

Back  in  the  library  again,  I  set  to  pacing  the  floor. 
I  think  Evelyn  resumed  her  seat  in  the  big  leathern 
chair.  I  am  not  sure.  For  a  time  I  was  not 

. 

conscious  that  she  was  in  the  room.  That  it  was 
inconsiderate  of  me,  I  admit.  It  was,  perhaps,  un- 
pardonable. And  yet  it  was  not  wilful.  Frankly, 
I  had  forgotten  her,  absolutely,  in  the  stress  of  the 
emotional  tempest  raised  by  that  revelation  in  the 
darkened  bedchamber. 

Back  and  forth,  I  strode  from  bookcase  to  book- 
case, over  the  soft,  neutral-tinted  Persian  rugs;  and 
all  the  while  there  echoed  those  repeated  denials  of 
Cameron's  that  he  had  ever  been  in  China.  "Never 
nearer  than  Yokohoma,"  he  had  said.  "Once  I  ate 
chop  suey  in  a  Chicago  Chinese  restaurant."  "I  have 
always  been  interested  in  China  and  the  Chinese,  but 
I  know  only  what  I  have  read."  And  the  words  of 
his  quondam  friend  came  back  to  me  now,  too,  with 
redoubled  emphasis:  "He  refused  to  admit  what  I 
knew  to  be  the  truth." 

Nevertheless  I  had  chosen  to  believe  that  Cameron, 
should  he  ever  return  to  us,  would  be  able  to  clarify 
this  turbid  stream  of  circumstance,  and  prove  the 
fallibility  of  appearances. 

[255] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

The  illusion  to  which  I  had  clung,  however,  was 
now  in  shreds.  Cameron,  returning,  with  body  en- 
feebled and  brain  confused,  had  spoken  in  his  un- 
guarded delirium.  The  mask  was  dropped,  the  screen 
thrown  down,  and  barefaced  and  stark  he  stood 
revealed,  a  woful  figure  in  the  impartial  glare  of 
truth. 

At  the  moment  I  could  see  no  extenuation.  He 
was  a  liar  and  he  was  a  coward ;  and  all  the  sympathy, 
all  the  friendship  I  ever  felt  for  him  died  utterly,  as 
I  thought  how,  probably,  every  untoward  incident  of 
the  past  month,  with  its  chain  of  vexatious  conse- 
quences, might  have  been  avoided  had  he  been  brave 
to  the  point  of  confession. 

It  was  now  plain  enough  for  the  least  astute  to 
see  that  at  some  time  he  had  committed  an  act  which 
had  aroused  certain  of  the  Chinese  to  retaliation.  It 
was  this  which  I  had  feared  from  the  first.  It  was 
this  which  he  had  chosen  to  hide. 

As  I  paced  to  and  fro,  his  craven  words  rang  once 
more  in  my  ears:  "No,  no,  for  God's  sake,  not  that! 
I  did  n't  kill  them!  I  swear  I  did  n't  kill  them!  It 
was  an  accident.  She  stove  on  a  rock.  I  did  n't !  I 
say,  I  did  n't !"  And  I  knew  that  he  was  lying.  The 
very  tone  of  his  disclaimer  convinced  me  of  his  guilt. 
He  had  killed,  and  he  cowered  before  the  avengers. 

[256] 


THE     PANG    OF    DISILLUSION 

Disgust,  abhorrence,  anger,  all  were  mine  in  turn. 

At  length  I  paused  before  a  window,  and  remained 
there,  with  my  back  to  the  room,  looking  down  on  the 
withered  garden  behind  the  house,  yet  seeing  nothing 
but  the  red  of  my  own  passion. 

A  touch  upon  my  shoulder  aroused  me  to  a  realiza- 
tion of  my  surroundings,  and  informed  me  that  I  was 
not  alone.  Startled  as  one  awakened  abruptly  from 
a  dream,  I  turned,  and  turning,  there  came  a  revul- 
sion. Every  surcharging  emotion  that  had  held  and 
bound  me  gave  way  instantly  to  a  violent  self- 
reproach,  excited  by  the  pathos  of  Evelyn's  sad, 
questioning  eyes  and  sadder,  quivering  mouth. 

My  impulse  was  to  take  her  in  my  arms,  and,  paci- 
fying, to  plead  pardon  for  what  must  have  seemed  to 
her  an  inexcusable  churlishness.  But  the  conditions 
which  so  recently  she  had  set  upon  me  forbidding  the 
coveted  embrace,  I  compromised  on  a  hand-clasp. 

"My  dear  child,"  I  began,  earnestly,  "I  'm  sorry. 
But  then  you  must  know  how  what  we  just  saw  and 
heard  distressed  me.  I  think  I  have  been  mad  since 
we  left  that  room.  I  hardly  know  what  I  have  been 
doing.  To  see  him  so  unstrung,  demented,  raving. 
To  hear  him—" 

But  she  would  not  allow  me  to  finish. 

"Philip  1"  she  cried,  passionately.  "Oh,  Philip! 
"  [257] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

Can't  you  see?  Don't  you  understand?  It  is  a  mis- 
take, an  awful  nightmare  of  a  mistake.  That  crea- 
ture over  there  is  not  my  uncle.  I  am  convinced  that 
he  is  not  my  Uncle  Robert." 


[258] 


CHAPTER  XX 

AN   ENIGMA   AND   ITS   SOLUTION 

my  amazement  I  found  that  Evelyn  meant 
more  than  I  fancied.  My  interpretation  of  her 
words  was  that  Cameron  was  not  in  his  right  mind  — 
that  he  was  not  her  Uncle  Robert,  as  she  had  known 
him.  But  in  a  very  brief  moment  she  disabused  me. 

"It  is  not  he,  at  all,"  she  declared,  with  emphasis. 
"There  is  a  resemblance,  yes.  But  the  man  you  found 
in  the  street  is  not  Robert  Cameron;  I  am  sure  of 
that." 

The  idea  that  I  had  brought  there,  not  my  friend, 
but  my  friend's  double,  seemed  to  me  too  prepos- 
terous for  a  moment's  entertainment.  I  fear  I  sus- 
pected, just  then,  that  Evelyn's  reason  had  been 
warped  a  trifle  by  the  racking  scene  of  which  we  had 
been  witnesses. 

"I  would  to  God,  my  dear  child,"  I  said,  sympa- 
thetically, "that  you  were  right.  But  there  can  be  no 
question  as  to  the  identity  of  the  sick  man.  Every 
one  who  has  seen  him  recognized  him  at  once  — 
Checkabeedy,  Louis,  Stephen,  Dr.  Massey.  No,  no, 

[259] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

Evelyn,  you  must  not  be  misled  by  his  ravings." 
And  at  this  point  there  occurred  to  me  a  tentative 
explanation  —  one  in  which  I  did  not  in  the  least 
believe,  but  which,  at  all  events,  was  worth  trying; 
one  which,  indeed,  I  prayed  would  serve. 

"Cameron,  you  must  remember,  has  been  with  his 
Chinese  captors  for  four  weeks.  In  that  time  he 
must  have  picked  up  something  of  their  language. 
It  is  only  natural  that  he  should.  So,  you  see,  to 
hear  him  use  a  few  words  of  pidgin-English  in  his 
insane  gibberish  is  not  so  remarkable,  after  all.  And 
as  for  that  spirited  denial  just  before  he  dropped  off 
to  sleep,  it  is  very  evident  that  they  accused  him  of 
something  with  which  he  had  no  connection,  though 
quite  cognizant  of  the  facts." 

But  the  girl  would  have  none  of  it.  Tolerantly 
she  listened,  and  tolerantly  she  smiled  when  I  had 
finished. 

"No,  no,  Philip,"  she  insisted,  "I  see  it  all  quite 
clearly.  Whatever  crime  was  committed,  the  crea- 
ture lying  there  committed  it.  But  he  is  not  my 
uncle.  Others  mistook  the  resemblance  for  identity, 
just  as  you  did,  only  the  situation  was  reversed. 
Those  who  abducted  Uncle  Robert  thought  they  were 
abducting  that  villain  we  are  now  housing." 

It  was  an  ingenious  notion,  but  of  course  it  was 

[260] 


AN    ENIGMA 

not  possible.  However,  I  saw  that  it  would  be  idle 
to  continue  to  dispute  with  her. 

"What  would  you  suggest,  then?  Shall  we  send 
our  invalid  to  a  hospital?"  I  asked,  in  pretended 
seriousness. 

But  very  sagely  she  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  returned.  "We  must  keep  him.  He 
is  very  valuable  to  us.  Perhaps  we  can  do  as  con- 
tending armies  do  —  arrange  an  exchange  of  prison- 
ers." 

In  spite  of  my  wretchedness,  I  suppressed  a  smile. 
It  was  all  very  amusing;  and  yet  the  fear  that  she 
was  suffering  from  aberration  due  to  hysteria,  tem- 
pered pitifully  the  humor  of  it. 

When,  later  in  the  afternoon,  Dr.  Massey  called,  I 
told  him  everything,  including  this  hallucination  of 
Evelyn's. 

"You  did  perfectly  right,"  he  said,  in  tone  of  cor- 
dial approval.  "The  malady  with  which  Cameron  is 
afflicted  has  a  tendency  to  distort  certain  lineaments. 
Especially  at  times  of  excitement  his  face  changes,  so 
that  Miss  Grayson  is  justified  in  fancying  that  this 
is  not  the  Robert  Cameron  she  knew.  I  have  noticed 
the  dissimilarity  myself,  but  it  is  due,  of  course,  en- 
tirely to  distorted  expression.  In  a  couple  of  days, 
at  most,  he  will  be  fully  restored,  and  then  he  him- 

[261] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

self  will  be  the  best  one  to  rectify  her  error.  Mean- 
while, if  I  were  you,  I  would  not  dispute  her.  She 
has  gone  through  a  great  deal,  and  gone  through  it 
bravely;  indeed  with  a  courage  that  is  quite  phenom- 
enal, and  she  is  entitled  to  any  little  consolatory  beliefs 
that  she  chooses  to  entertain."  And  then,  as  if  such 
advice  were  not  wholly  superfluous,  he  added,  "Be 
kind  to  her,  Clyde ;  be  good  to  her.  She  is  a  wonder- 
ful young  woman." 

Whereat  I  grasped  his  hand,  and  promised  him, 
lifting  him  a  notch  in  my  estimation  because  of  his 
perspicacity.  And  all  the  while  a  lump  kept  rising 
in  my  throat  and  threatening  my  tear  ducts. 

On  the  following  day  I  heard  nothing  from  Miss 
Clement,  which  somewhat  surprised  me,  though  she 
had  told  me  that  her  prospective  informants  were 
likely  to  take  their  own  time.  Early,  on  the  second 
morning,  however,  I  had  a  note  from  her,  the  enig- 
matic character  of  which  impelled  me  to  speculation. 

"Dear  Mr.  Clyde,"  she  wrote,  "I  hope  you  can 
make  it  convenient  to  visit  me  this  evening,  at  the 
Mission.  I  want  you  to  talk  with  Ling  Fo,  an  ex- 
ceptionally well-educated  young  Chinaman,  who  tells 
me  that  his  people  are  much  mystified  over  a  recent 
event ;  and,  if  what  he  says  be  true  —  and  I  never 
knew  him  to  lie  —  a  new  complexion  is  placed  upon 

[262] 


AN    ENIGMA 

this  whole  matter.  Come  about  nine-thirty,  after  our 
service  is  over." 

As  Dr.  Massey's  orders  forbidding  any  one  save 
Mr.  Bryan  to  enter  Cameron's  room,  issued  immedi- 
ately after  our  hideous  experience,  had  not  yet  been 
rescinded,  our  knowledge  of  his  condition  was,  per- 
force, gleaned  entirely  through  physician  and  nurse. 
Both  now  assured  me  that  he  was  progressing  satis- 
factorily, and  that  there  had  been  no  return  of  the 
dementia. 

Evelyn  still  persisted  in  her  notion  that  the  patient 
was  not  her  uncle,  but  his  double,  and  following  the 
doctor's  directions  I  refrained  from  trying  to  con- 
vince her  of  the  truth ;  even  going  so  far  as  to  pretend 
that  I  believed  as  she  did,  and  planning  to  begin 
negotiations  through  Miss  Clement  and  her  Chinese 
confidants  for  an  exchange  of  captives  as  soon  as  our 
hostage  was  able  to  be  moved. 

"I  am  to  see  Miss  Clement,  to-night,"  I  told  her, 
late  that  afternoon,  "also  an  Oriental  acquaintance 
of  hers,  who  appears  to  be  informed  on  the  subject 
which  interests  us.  It  is  possible  that  he  will  prove 
the  very  person  who  can  arrange  it  all." 

"Let  me  go  with  you,"  she  urged,  laying  a  beseech- 
ing hand  on  my  arm.  "Do  let  me  go  with  you, 
Philip.  I  am  so  anxious.  It  will  seem  years  if  I 

[263] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

have  to  wait  here  for  you  to  bring  me  the  news;  and 
there  are  sure  to  be  some  things  you  will  forget  to 
ask  about,  if  I  'm  not  there  to  prompt  you." 

In  spite  of  the  unflattery  of  her  speech  I  smiled, 
indulgent.  Her  great  blue  eyes,  pathetically  plead- 
ing as  her  words,  were  able  advocates.  It  was  hard 
to  deny  her  under  any  circumstances,  and  now,  as  I 
thought  it  over,  I  saw  no  reason  why  in  this  instance 
she  should  not  have  her  desire. 

"Yes,"  I  agreed,  "y°u  shall  go.  But  remember, 
you  must  be  very  careful,  for  the  present  at  least, 
not  to  let  slip  the  slightest  inkling  that  we  suspect 
our  Cameron  is  not  the  real  Cameron.  We  are  seek- 
ing information,  you  know,  Evelyn,  not  squandering 
it." 

Pell  Street  wore  its  night  gaudery  when  the  Cam- 
eron electric  brougham  with  Evelyn  and  myself  as 
occupants  glided  to  a  halt  before  the  door  of  the 
Mission  over  which  Miss  Clement  ably  and  success- 
fully presided.  The  pale,  vari-tinted  light  of  lanterns 
from  the  balcony  of  a  restaurant  across  the  way, 
mingling  with  the  flickering  yellow  beams  of  the  city's 
gas  lamps,  threw  into  sharp  relief  the  curious  pendent 
black  signs  with  their  red  cloth  borders  and  gilded 
Chinese  lettering,  hanging  before  shop  doors.  It  re- 
vealed, too,  the  oddly  contrasting  figures  of  loungers 

[264] 


AN    ENIGMA 

and  pedestrians,  residents  and  visitors.  And  it  bared, 
back  of  all  that  was  bizarre,  the  commonplace  brick 
fronts  of  the  typically  American  buildings,  with  their 
marring  gridironing  of  fire-escapes.  To  Evelyn, 
rarely  observant,  the  combination  was  interesting,  but 
disappointing. 

"It  does  not  look  at  all  as  I  expected  it  would,"  she 
said  to  me.  "It  hasn't  the  air.  It  is  neither  one 
thing  nor  the  other.  It  is  like  a  stage  scene,  carelessly 
mounted." 

As  we  alighted  at  the  Mission  door,  the  last  notes 
of  a  familiar  hymn,  mangled  in  words  and  melody 
almost  beyond  recognition,  flowed  out  to  join  the 
babel  of  street  sounds;  and  before  we  could  mount 
the  high  steps  there  had  begun  to  pour  forth  a  motley, 
malodorous  freshet  of  felt-shod  soles,  that  gave  us 
pause;  blocking,  for  a  few  minutes,  not  merely  the 
ascent  but  the  sidewalk  as  well. 

When,  at  length,  the  way  was  clear,  and  by  direc- 
tion of  a  youth  at  the  entrance,  we  had  passed  through 
the  close,  ill-smelling  hall,  where  the  lights  had  al- 
ready been  lowered,  we  came  upon  Miss  Clement, 
alone  in  a  little  well-ventilated  and  brightly-lighted 
office  or  parlor,  jutting  off  at  the  rear. 

If  she  was  surprised  at  seeing  Evelyn,  she  gave  no 
sign.  She  welcomed  us  both  with  the  smiling  cor- 

[265] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

diality  of  a  life-long  friend.  But  abruptly  her  smile 
died. 

"I  tried  to  get  you  on  the  telephone  an  hour  ago," 
she  explained,  "but  there  was  some  trouble  with  the 
wire.  I  hoped  to  save  you  this  journey  for  nothing." 

"Your  protege  could  n't  come?"  I  queried. 

"Unfortunately,  no,"  she  returned,  with  a  little 
quaver  in  her  voice.  "My  protege  will  never  come 
again.  He  was  shot  to  death.  Poor,  poor  Ling  Fo !" 

"Shot  to  death!"  I  cried,  while  Evelyn,  with  cheeks 
suddenly  pale  and  eyes  wide,  held  her  underlip  fast 
between  her  teeth,  and  gripped  hard  on  the  arms  of 
the  rocking  chair  in  which  Miss  Clement  had  placed 
her. 

"Yes."  And  this  strong,  sweet-faced,  gray-haired 
woman  in  gray,  her  momentarily-lost  composure  quite 
recovered,  laid  a  quieting  hand  softly  over  Evelyn's 
tensed  clutch.  "Yes.  That  sort  of  thing  is  not  un- 
usual down  here,  you  know.  There  is  always  more 
or  less  bad  blood  between  the  tongs.  But  it  was  most 
unfortunate,  just  at  this  time,  because  I  feel  sure  he 
could  have  told  you  something  worth  learning.  I  'm 
glad  he  was  a  good  boy.  He  was  one  of  the  few  con- 
verts that  are  really  sincere." 

"Perhaps  he  knew  too  much,"  I  suggested. 

But  Miss  Clement  made  no  comment.  I  fancy  it 

[266] 


AN    ENIGMA 

was  out  of  consideration  for  Evelyn  that  she  refrained 
from  endorsing  my  conclusion;  while  I  reproached 
myself  for  being  less  thoughtful,  I  was  all  the  more 
convinced  that  I  had  voiced  the  motive  for  the  shoot- 
ing. 

As  Evelyn  did  not  ask  for  particulars,  I  profited 
by  the  lesson  thus  taught  and  curbed  my  curiosity. 
But  I  was  in  no  mood  to  drop  the  subject.  From 
Miss  Clement's  note  it  was  clear  that  Ling  Fo  had 
already  communicated  to  her  some  of  the  more  im- 
portant facts  in  this  connection,  and  of  these  I  hoped 
to  possess  myself. 

"And  so,  Miss  Clement,"  I  ventured,  sharpening 
my  wedge,  "Chinatown  is  mystified,  I  understand." 

She  was  seated,  now,  by  her  little  desk,  and  for  a 
moment  had  been  turning  up,  searchingly,  one  paper 
after  another,  from  an  open  drawer.  At  my  observa- 
tion, she  paused  and  raised  her  glance,  a  folded  sheet 
of  note  size,  in  her  hand;  for  a  heart-beat  her  eyes 
held  mine. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  at  length.  "Chinatown  is  all  at 
sea,  so  to  speak." 

"Over  what  ?"  I  pressed. 

Slowly  she  unfolded  the  scrap  of  writing  she  held, 
and  before  replying  she  read  it  through,  slowly  and 
deliberately. 

[267] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  she  proposed,  "I  would  pre- 
fer not  to  talk  about  it.  I  am  in  a  peculiar  posi- 
tion here,  Mr.  Clyde,  as  you  can  well  understand,  and 
I  can't  afford  to  play  false  to  those  who  trust  me. 
At  the  same  time  I  do  not  always  know  whom  among 
these  people  to  trust.  Some  one  who  knew  them  very 
well  wrote,  once  upon  a  time,  something  like  this: 

"You  can  take  a  Chink  away  from  his  fan, 
Away  from  his  lotteries,  fiddles  and  joss, 
You  can  give  his  queue  to  the  barber,  boss ; 
But  you  can't  get  down  to  the  roots  that  start 
From  the  yellow  base  of  his  yellow  heart." 

And  it 's  very  true.  There  are  those  here  who 
pretend  to  adore  me,  who  would  think  nothing  of 
treating  me  as  they  treated  poor  Ling  Fo,  if 
they  suspected  I  knew  anything  and  gave  infor- 
mation." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  'm  a  coward,  Miss 
Grayson,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  Evelyn.  "I  think 
I  Ve  proved  to  you  that  I  want  to  help  you  and  mean 
to,  but  I  'm  rather  upset  to-night,  and  so  I  'm  afraid 
we  shall  have  to  let  matters  rest  a  little  longer.  There 
is  one  thing,  though,  that  you  can  do  for  me,  if  you 
will." 

The  last  sentence  was  addressed  to  me,  and  I  made 
haste  to  assure  her  that  she  had  only  to  command  me. 

[268] 


AN    ENIGMA 

As  she  had  spoken  she  had  been  folding  and  re- 
folding the  paper  in  her  hand,  until  it  was  now  a 
tiny,  one-inch  square. 

"Take  this,"  she  said,  handing  it  to  me,  her  voice 
a  low  murmur,  "and  after  you  have  read  it,  destroy 
it.  I  should  n't  want  it  found  in  my  possession." 

"I  understand,  Miss  Clement,"  I  returned  and  the 
folded  square  went  into  my  waistcoat  pocket. 

"It  may  mean  more  to  you,"  she  added,  in  a  whis- 
per, "than  anything  I  could  say." 

When  once  more  in  the  brougham,  speeding  north- 
ward, Evelyn,  who  had  been  unusually  taciturn 
throughout  the  interview,  asked  me  a  question. 

"Did  you  mean  what  you  said,  Philip?" 

"What  did  I  say?"  I  queried. 

"That  you  understood." 

"I  understood  that  it  might  not  be  well  for  her 
to  have  this  letter  of  Ling  Fo's  about." 

"But  the  rest?  Her  refusal  to  talk?  Her  uneas- 
iness? Her  fear  of  possible  traitors?"  she  persisted. 

Once  more  she  had  gone  straight  to  the  heart  of 
the  situation.  I  had  been  as  puzzled  as  she  by  the 
missionary's  attitude  of  constraint,  which  I  could  not 
attribute  wholly  to  the  tragedy  she  had  told  us  of; 
and  I  admitted  as  much  to  Evelyn. 

"If  she  suspected  eavesdroppers,"  the  girl  argued, 

[269] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

"she  said  too  much.  If  she  did  n't  fear  being  over- 
heard, why  could  n't  she  tell  us  all  she  knew?" 

For  want  of  a  better  answer  I  said, 

"Perhaps  the  letter  will  solve  the  enigma,"  and 
plucking  it  from  my  pocket  with  thumb  and  fore- 
finger I  began  carefully  to  unfold  it. 

The  interior  of  the  vehicle  was  brilliantly  alight, 
and  though  we  were  already  far  beyond  the  China- 
town zone  and  the  chance  observation  of  any  lurking 
spies,  I  nevertheless  chose  discreetly  to  draw  the 
shades  prior  to  outspreading  the  written  page. 

Before  the  sheet  with  its  network  of  creases  was 
quite  flattened,  Evelyn,  who  was  bending  attentively 
near,  exclaimed  in  surprise,  "It  is  her  own  handwrit- 
ing! See,  it  is  written  by  Miss  Clement  herself!" 

Already  absorbed,  I  made  no  response.  Avidly 
my  eyes  were  racing  over  the  lines ;  greedily,  my  brain 
was  digesting  them. 

"Tidings  of  the  cruel  murder  of  Ling  Fo  have 
just  reached  me.  When  you  come,  as  I  know  you 
will,  I  shall  not  dare  to  speak  what  I  have  here  written, 
and  which  is  all  that  the  poor  boy  ever  told  me.  Al- 
ready there  are  spies  about  me,  and  your  visit  is  a 
risk  to  us  both.  I  would  have  prevented  it,  if  I 
could. 

"Three  weeks  ago,  according  to  Ling  Fo,  a  white 

[270] 


AN    ENIGMA 

man  was  abducted  by  order  of  the  Six  Companies, 
and  shipped  to  China  for  punishment,  aboard  a  tramp 
steamer.  Ling  Fo  would  not  give  me  the  white  man's 
name  or  any  of  the  particulars,  save  that  sixteen 
years  ago  he  had  committed  a  crime,  known  to  every 
Chinaman  in  America  as  'The  Crime  of  the  Sable 
Lorcha,'  or  'black  funeral  ship,'  by  which  nearly  one 
hundred  Chinese  coolies  lost  their  lives. 

"It  seems  now  that  this  man,  who  they  thought 
was  on  the  ocean,  suddenly  reappeared  in  New  York, 
a  few  nights  ago.  He  was  recognized  and  set  upon 
by  two  Chinamen,  but  he  escaped,  and  the  Six  Com- 
panies and  all  the  tongs  are  in  a  ferment  over  the 
mystery." 

Evelyn's  hand  was  on  my  arm  as  I  read,  her  face 
close  to  mine,  reading  with  me.  Having  finished,  I 
held  the  sheet  for  a  moment,  waiting  for  her  to  signify 
that  she,  too,  had  reached  the  end.  And  in  that  mo- 
ment the  brougham  came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

Before  either  of  us  could  voice  a  word  the  door 
on  my  side  was  wrenched  violently  open,  and  the  blue 
steel  muzzle  of  a  revolver  covered  me. 


[271] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN   THE  DOORS    PARTED 

immediately  followed  must  have  occupied 
a  second  or  two  at  most.  Yet  it  seemed  to  me 
that  for  many  minutes  I  sat  mute  and  motionless, 
staring  at  that  levelled  weapon  and  at  the  rude  black 
mask  behind  it;  for  my  brain  was  superactive  and 
my  thoughts  were  racing. 

Instantly  I  comprehended  all  that  had  happened, 
and  the  situation,  climaxing  in  our  peril,  was  as  clear 
to  me  as  though  I  had  witnessed  the  whole  chain  of 
events  from  inception  to  final  execution.  The  assas- 
sination of  Ling  Fo  was  to  be  succeeded  by  the  ab- 
duction, perhaps  the  murder,  of  Evelyn  and  myself. 
Already  while  we  were  conversing  with  Miss  Clement 
our  driver  had  been  spirited  from  the  box  and  one 
of  the  enemy  mounted  in  his  place.  In  the  rush  of 
my  review  I  recalled  that  in  hurrying  Evelyn  into 
the  brougham,  anxious  to  be  started  and  away,  I  had 
not  cast  even  so  much  as  a  glance  towards  the  man  in 
front.  At  first,  in  our  absorption,  and  later  behind 
lowered  silken  shades,  we  had  made  no  effort  to  trace 

[272] 


WHEN    THE    DOORS    PARTED 

our  course.  Hence  our  present  location  was  madden- 
ingly unguessable.  We  might  be  far  on  the  east 
side  or  far  on  the  west,  or  we  might  merely  have 
circled  back  to  within  a  block  or  less  of  the  Mission 
from  which  we  started. 

All  this,  I  say,  flashed  through  my  brain  with  in- 
conceivable swiftness  as  I  sat  rigid,  with  eyes  on  the 
revolver  barrel  and  the  masked  face  of  the  shadowy, 
sinister  creature  that  held  it.  All  this,  and  more. 
For  in  that  brief  space  I  considered  one  possible 
course  of  action  after  another,  groping  desperately 
for  a  plan  of  rescue  and  escape. 

In  that  passing  second  or  two  there  had  been  no 
sound  —  no  word  from  him  at  the  door;  no  whisper 
even  from  her  at  my  side,  who,  like  myself,  sat  dumb 
and  inert,  stricken  to  stone  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
attack.  But  for  a  second  or  two  only  this  silence  and 
inertia  lasted. 

That  which  ensued  was  coincident.  As  though  the 
step  had  been  prearranged,  the  three  actors  moved 
in  concert.  The  hand  which  held  the  weapon  ad- 
vanced a  dozen  inches  or  more.  Synchronously  my 
foot,  lifted  with  all  the  accuracy  and  power  of  my 
undergraduate  football  days,  met  the  intruding  re- 
volver and  sent  it  spinning  against  the  vehicle's  up- 
holstered top.  Simultaneously,  Evelyn  screamed. 

18  [273] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

And  even  as  her  voice  rang  out,  high  and  shrill ;  even 
as  that  lethal  object  of  chill-hardened  steel  spun  up- 
ward, the  light  was  switched  suddenly  off  and  we 
were  in  grumous  darkness. 

It  was  she  who,  pressing  the  button  at  her  side, 
had  dropped  over  us  this  mantle  of  invisibility  no  less 
obscuring  than  the  fabled  Hel  Keplein;  and  it  was 
she,  too,  who  now  opened  the  other  door  of  the 
brougham,  and  with  a  murmured:  "Come!  Hurry!" 
drew  me  after  her  into  the  dread  uncertainty  of  an 
environment  of  which  we  knew  nothing. 

The  gloom  without  was  scarcely  less  thick  than 
that  within.  Of  my  five  senses  therefore,  all  keenly 
alert,  that  of  sight  told  me  nothing;  but  my  ears  and 
nostrils,  aided  and  abetted  by  my  perception  of  sodden 
planking  beneath  my  feet,  informed  me  that  we  had 
alighted  in  a  stable.  The  sound  of  pounding  hoofs 
echoed  from  near-by  stalls  and  unmistakable  equine 
odors  were  strongly  pervasive. 

Upon  my  hearing  there  fell,  too,  as  we  fled,  the 
high-pitched  nasal  cackle  of  excited  and  perplexed 
celestials,  whose  eyes,  dazzled  by  the  brougham's 
lamps,  failed  to  follow  us  into  that  obscurity  which 
lay  in  the  wake  of  the  conveyance,  and  through 
which,  hand  in  hand,  Evelyn  and  I  crept  crouchingly 
toward  the  street,  our  hearts  hammering  but  our 

[274] 


WHEN    THE    DOORS    PARTED 

breathing  smothered  lest  it  betray  our  whereabouts 
and  precipitate  pursuit. 

If  in  our  fond  fancy  we  expected  an  unimpeded 
way,  however,  our  expectations  were  not  realized. 
Where  the  darkness  was  densest  there  rose  an  obstruc- 
tion. From  out  of  the  black  a  pair  of  arms  encircled 
me  —  a  pair  of  arms,  long  and  sinewy  and  muscular, 
which  tightened  about  me  with  a  sudden  vise-like 
pressure,  holding  me  powerless.  My  hold  of 
Evelyn's  hand  was  thus  abruptly  sundered,  and 
though  she  could  not  see,  she  sensed  the  encounter. 
Once  more  she  screamed.  High  and  shrill  her 
young  voice  rose  above  the  noise  of  the  stamping 
horses  and  the  quaintly  strident  chatter  of  the  con- 
fused Mongolians.  It  was  not  so  much  a  mere  cry 
of  affright  as  it  was  an  appeal  for  help.  And  it  met 
with  surprisingly  prompt  response. 

Before  its  echo  had  died,  the  double  sliding  doors 
which  separated  our  stable  dungeon  from  the  side- 
walk were  swept  swiftly  apart,  admitting  the  reveal- 
ing gleam  from  a  street  lamp  across  the  way,  and 
admitting,  too,  the  husky,  commanding  figure  of  a 
man  with  raised  revolver,  followed  by  a  mob  of  neigh- 
borhood denizens  attracted  by  the  unusual,  and  ex- 
cited by  the  gij]  penetrating  vociferation. 

Quickly  as  I  had  been  seized,  even  more  quickly  was 

[275] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

I  released.  The  encircling  arms  fell  away  instantly, 
and  the  giant  who  had  held  me  turned  with  an  oath  of 
defiance  and  confronted  the  invaders.  In  both  oath 
and  attitude  there  was  a  reminder  of  something  heard 
and  seen  before;  and  treading  upon  the  heels  of  re- 
minder came  recognition.  It  was  Philetus  Murphy, 
red  and  burly,  who  now  towered  menacingly  above 
our  armed  saviour.  It  was  Philetus  Murphy  who, 
swinging  viciously  for  his  adversary's  jaw,  staggered 
back  the  same  instant,  his  arm  dropping  and  a  bullet 
in  his  shoulder. 

For  a  moment  following  the  shot,  there  was  dead 
silence.  Then  came  pandemonium.  The  mob,  al- 
ready augmented  from  a  score  to  a  hundred,  surged 
into  the  stable  as  a  spring  flood  surges  over  broken 
dams.  With  Evelyn  in  a  corner  behind  me  I  fought 
off  the  crowding,  bellowing  throng,  while  Murphy  lay 
groaning  at  our  feet,  and  his  assailant,  who,  when 
once  his  face  met  the  light,  I  discovered  was  O'Hara, 
my  own  detective,  smashed  heads  right  and  left  with 
the  butt  of  his  revolver,  and  hoarsely  commanded  room 
for  his  fallen  enemy. 

What  might  have  happened,  what  fatalities  might 
have  ensued,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fortuitous  arrival 
of  three  uniformed  members  of  the  metropolitan 
police  force  I  shall  not  attempt  to  conjecture.  Their 

[276] 


WHEN    THE    DOORS    PARTED 

clubs,  I  know,  did  good  service ;  and  a  shot  or  two  fired 
over  the  heads  of  the  rioting  crowd  had  a  wonderfully 
pacifying  effect. 

Poor  Evelyn,  in  spite  of  an  heroically  stubborn 
insistence  to  be  courageous,  was  as  thoroughly  fright- 
ened as  I  have  ever  seen  her.  When,  at  length,  the 
stable  was  cleared,  and  lamps  were  lighted,  she  was 
still  pallid  as  marble,  and  her  lip  quivered  with  an 
obstinacy  that  no  restraining  teeth  nor  hiding  hand 
could  quite  disguise. 

"Oh!  Was  n't  it  exciting!"  she  exclaimed,  with  an 
effort  at  nonchalance  that  was  almost  pathetic.  "I 
would  n't  have  missed  this  experience  for  anything  in 
the  world."  And  then,  discovering  a  little  trickle  of 
blood  on  my  cheek,  which  a  diligently-plied  handker- 
chief had  not  fully  succeeded  in  keeping  out  of  sight, 
she  was  at  once  all  solicitude.  "Oh,  Philip!"  she  cried, 
with  wide  eyes,  swimming.  "You're  hurt!  It  was 
awful!  It  was  heathenish!  I  wish  we  had  never 
dared  —  who  did  it?  Do  you  know?  Was  it  a  knife 
cut?  Was  it — "  And  so  she  rattled  on,  her  own 
ills  swallowed  up  at  length  in  her  anxiety  over  my 
insignificant  injury. 

Murphy,  meanwhile,  had  sunk  into  insensibility 
through  loss  of  blood,  and  lay  now,  breathing  stertor- 
ously.  One  of  the  officers  had  already  telephoned  for 

[277] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

an  ambulance  and  the  other  two  were  making  a  dili- 
gent search  for  the  proprietor  of  the  stable.  As  for 
the  Chinamen,  they  had  fled  at  the  first  alarm,  and  it 
looked  very  much  as  if  every  one  in  any  way  connected 
with  the  outrage,  save  only  Murphy,  had  gone  with 
them. 

O'Hara,  who  had  been  put,  nominally,  under  ar- 
rest, and  who  was  now  awaiting  the  pleasure  of  his 
captors,  availed  himself  of  the  first  moment  of 
Evelyn's  silence  to  address  me. 

"It 's  been  a  long  chase,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he  said  —  and 
there  was  something  of  pride  in  his  tone, —  "but  you 
see  I  got  him  dead  to  rights  at  last.  He  's  mixed  up 
with  about  the  most  lawless  gang  of  highbinders  New 
York  has  known  for  years.  I  have  n't  got  down  to 
all  his  history  yet,  but  I  Ve  been  handed  a  good  stack 
of  it,  and  it  won't  be  hard  to  put  the  screws  on  him 
now  for  killing  that  Chink  that  used  to  work  for  him 
up  to  Cos  Cob.  I  did  n't  know  it  was  you  he  was  after 
to-night,  but  I  do  know  that  he  had  a  hand  in  the  plot 
that  fixed  another  Chink  this  very  evening  —  a  young 
fellow  named  Ling  Fo,  who  was  pumped  full  of  lead 
just  as  he  was  turning  from  the  Bowery  into  Pell 
Street." 

It  was  from  O'Hara  that  I  learned  our  present 
whereabouts.  The  stable  was  not  more  than  a  half 

[278] 


WHEN    THE    DOORS     PARTED 

dozen  blocks  from  the  intersection  of  the  two  streets 
he  had  just  named. 

The  fate  of  our  driver  we  could  only  conjecture. 
Before  the  policemen  I  laid  the  facts  and  they  prom- 
ised me  that  he  should  be  found.  And  then,  after 
half  an  hour's  waiting,  a  substitute  driver  was  se- 
cured from  a  neighboring  garage,  and  Evelyn  and  I 
were  permitted  to  continue  our  interrupted  journey 
homeward. 

At  the  Cameron  house,  as  though  our  cup  of  excite- 
ment were  not  already  filled  to  brimming,  a  fresh 
experience  awaited  us  —  an  experience  of  such  vital 
significance  as  to  overturn  entertained  conclusions 
and  shed  a  wholly  new  light  upon  our  darkest  per- 
plexities. 


[279] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

• 

THE   SCUTTLED   SHIP 

/^HECKABEEDY  met  us  in  the  hall  — an  un- 
usually agitated  Checkabeedy,  with  his  full- 
jowled,  rubicund  face  ruddy  beyond  the  common,  and 
his  tiny  gray  eyes  twinkling  like  twin  star  sapphires. 

Our  adventure,  thrilling  as  it  had  been,  was  sub- 
jugated, if  not  indeed  for  the  moment  forgotten,  in 
the  presence  of  this  unwonted  suscitation.  For  the 
butler's  aplomb  was  a  sort  of  family  fixture  which 
nothing  short  of  the  most  extraordinary  happening 
could  either  unsettle  or  upheave.  To  find  him  in  such 
case,  therefore,  argued  either  cognizance  of  excep- 
tional developments  or  possession  of  monstrously  im- 
portant tidings;  and  at  sight  of  him  we  both  paused 
in  mute  expectancy. 

"There  is  a  person,  sir,"  he  began,  making  vain 
effort  to  control  his  voice  to  dispassion,  "a  foreign 
person  —  what  is  called  a  Chinee,  I  think,  sir, —  in  the 
reception  room.  If  I  understand  him,  sir,  he  is  a 
consul  or  something  like  that.  And  he  has  brought 
with  him  a  tall,  thin,  elderly  man,  as  yellow  as  him- 

[280] 


THE     SCUTTLED     SHIP 

self,  sir.  I  was  in  doubt  about  allowing  them  to  wait, 
but  they  told  me  they  must  see  you,  sir,  to-night  with- 
out fail;  that  it  was  a  matter  to  your  interest,  sir. 
They  have  been  here  over  an  hour,  now,  and  I  have 
never  taken  my  eye  off  the  reception-room  door. 
Seeing  as  how  those  mysterious  things  happened  at 
Cragholt,  sir,  I  was  fearful  lest  something  more  of 
the  same  sort  might  be  contemplated.  And  poor  Mr. 
Cameron  lying  up  there  with  that  nurse  Bryan,  who, 
between  you  and  me,  sir,  I  don't  trust,  nohow." 

Evelyn  was  scarcely  to  be  blamed  for  a  trepida- 
tion equalling,  if  not  surpassing,  Checkabeedy's. 

"Don't  see  them,  Philip,"  she  urged  with  nervous 
vehemence.  "Please  don't  see  them !  It  is  some  trick. 
I  feel  it  is.  Checkabeedy  will  get  them  out  of  the 
house  at  once.  Won't  you,  Checkabeedy?" 

But  I  was  in  far  different  mood.  Of  late  matters 
had  been  shaping  themselves,  apparently,  towards  a 
climax.  In  a  quiet  way,  avoiding  the  spectacularly 
aggressive,  and  aided  not  a  little  by  chance,  we  had 
drawn  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  veil  which  hid  the  truth. 
If  there  had  come  to  me  now  the  opportunity  for 
another  step,  it  must  not  be  disregarded.  My  whole 
inclination  was  to  welcome  it.  Therefore  I  smiled,  re- 
assuringly, at  Evelyn,  as  I  said, 

"Really,    my    dear    girl,    you    are    unnecessarily 

[281] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

alarmed.  There  is  not  —  cannot  be,  in  fact, —  the 
slightest  possibility  of  danger.  On  the  contrary  their 
visit,  whoever  they  may  be,  is  in  all  likelihood  pacific. 
But  if  it  would  make  you  any  less  uneasy,  Mr. 
Checkabeedy  shall  wait  near  the  open  door,  and  you 
yourself  shall  stop  here  in  the  hall,  where  you  can 
practically  see  and  hear  all  that  goes  on." 

That  she  yielded  promptly  to  my  argument,  pre- 
tended, at  least,  to  put  aside  her  fears,  and  returning 
me  smile  for  smile,  confessed  to  a  consuming  curiosity 
which  she  had  merely  endeavored  to  disguise,  was  an 
episode  as  characteristic  of  her  as  any  that  I  can  re- 
member. 

On  entering  the  reception-room  —  a  somewhat 
formally  furnished,  square  room,  which  jutted  from 
the  hall,  on  the  left  —  I  was  mildly  surprised  to  dis- 
cover that  one  of  my  visitors  was  none  other  than  the 
Chinese  merchant,  Yup  Sing.  At  sight  of  me  he  rose 
and  came  a  step  forward,  the  same  tall,  spare,  dignified 
Asiatic  I  had  met  in  the  Mott  Street  warehouse,  save 
that  he  no  longer  wore  the  dress  of  his  country,  but 
a  dark,  well-cut  suit  of  American  clothes. 

"Permit  me,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he  said,  in  that  chill 
leisurely  tone  I  so  well  remembered,  "to  present  to 
you  the  vice  consul  of  China  at  New  York,  Mr.  Chen 
Mok."  And  then  I  saw  that  his  companion,  a  much 

[282] 


THE     SCUTTLED     SHIP 

shorter  man  than  he  and  younger,  had  risen  too,  and 
was  holding  out  a  hand  in  tentative  greeting. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  ignore  the  proffer,  for  of 
late  I  had  come  to  abhor  the  race  he  represented,  but 
on  second  thought  I  acceded  to  the  most  formal  of 
hand-clasps. 

"We  are  here,"  Yup  Sing  continued,  "because  we 
believe  we  have  secured  for  you,  Mr.  Clyde,  the  ex- 
planation which  you  recently  did  me  the  honor  to  re- 
quest of  me.  And  because  we  are  in  hope  that, 
through  you,  some  agreement  may  be  reached  which 
will  put  an  end  to  the  present  deplorable  outbreak 
amongst  certain  of  our  people  in  this  city." 

Vice  Consul  Chen  bowed  gravely,  and  I,  in  my 
turn,  gestured  my  visitors  to  resume  their  seats.  So 
far  I  had  not  spoken,  but  mentally  I  had  been  busy. 
Frankly,  I  distrusted  Yup  Sing,  and  I  questioned 
how  much  of  his  explanation,  whatever  it  might  be, 
I  could  afford  to  accept.  Fortunately,  however,  I 
now  had  some  basis  for  judgment.  I  felt  that,  so  far 
as  it  went,  the  letter  from  Miss  Clement  could  be  re- 
lied upon  absolutely.  If  the  merchant's  story 
coincided,  then  it  would  perhaps  be  safe  to  assume  the 
correctness  of  added  details.  If  it  did  not  coincide, 
I  was  in  possession  of  valuable  material  for  cross- 
examination. 

[£83l 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"I  am  an  advocate  of  the  policy  of  reciprocity,  Mr. 
Yup,"  I  said  at  length.  "If,  in  return  for  your  serv- 
ice, I  can  render  a  service  to  you,  you  have  only  to 
command  me." 

I  chose  a  chair  between  them  and  the  door,  and 
sitting  down  assumed  an  attitude  of  attention. 

"What  I  tell  you,"  began  the  merchant,  his  body 
erect,  his  shoulders  squared,  his  chin  lifted,  "Mr.  Chen 
will  verify."  And  once  more  Mr.  Chen  endorsed  his 
friend's  assertion  by  a  grave  forward  sweep  of  his 
head. 

"When  you  came  to  me,  Mr.  Clyde,  with  the  story 
of  your  friend  Mr.  Cameron's  annoyance  and  sub- 
sequent abduction,  I  was  inclined  to  the  view  that  you 
were,  yourself,  in  some  way  deceived.  What  I  have 
learned  since,  corroborates  that  impression.  As  you 
say  here  in  America,  your  friend,  Mr.  Cameron,  did 
not  play  fair  with  you." 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  I  might  possibly 
have  permitted  this  assertion  to  go  unchallenged.  I 
am  not  as  a  rule  truculent;  more  often  than  not 
I  find  it  advisable  to  ignore  preliminary  inaccuracies 
of  narration,  the  quicker  to  reach  the  vitals  of  the 
narrative.  But  on  this  night  I  was  contrarily  dis- 
posed. The  inscrutable  countenance  and  the  superior, 
almost  patronizing  manner  of  the  speaker  chafed  and 

[284] 


THE     SCUTTLED     SHIP 

irritated  me  to  the  verge  of  endurance ;  and  so,  without 
hesitation,  I  interrupted  him  with  a  contradiction. 

"If  all  that  you  have  learned  is  no  more  reliable 
than  this  corroboration,"  I  declared,  warmly,  "we 
might  as  well  end  the  interview  here  and  now.  Of 
Mr.  Cameron's  fairness  at  all  times  and  under  all  cir- 
cumstances there  can  be  no  question.  He  is  my 
friend,  tried  and  trusted,  and  incapable  of  deceit.  On 
that  I  would  stake  everything  I  hold  most  dear;  and 
we  may  as  well  have  it  clearly  understood  at  the  out- 
set." 

A  white  man  would  either  have  insisted  or  apolo- 
gized. But  the  yellow  man  has  a  way  of  his  own. 
Yup  Sing  remained  silent  until  I  had  finished.  But 
whether  or  not  he  heard  me  was  manifested  neither 
by  word  nor  sign.  Without  change  of  facial  ex- 
pression or  alteration  of  tone,  he  placidly  proceeded, 
choosing  his  phrases  with  infinite  care  and  rounding 
his  periods  with  a  facility  that  for  an  Asiatic  was  little 
short  of  marvellous.  Had  he  been  any  one  else  in  the 
world  I  should  have  admired  him.  As  it  was,  his 
cleverness  only  added  to  my  aversion. 

"There  is  a  story,"  he  went  on,  "a  true  story  famil- 
iar to  all  Chinamen;  to  some  Chinamen  especially 
it  is  a  very  bitter,  a  very  pathetic  story,  because  it 
has  to  do  with  the  passing  of  their  kinsmen, —  their 

[285] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

fathers,  their  brothers,  and  their  sons.  Death  some- 
times is  glorious,  as  we  all  know.  To  die  for  one's 
country,  or  for  one's  honor,  is  to  be  privileged.  To 
die  of  pestilence  or  famine  is  deplorable.  But  to  die 
by  treachery  is  to  leave  a  poor  legacy  to  those  who  fol- 
low —  a  legacy  of  unrest  until  vengeance  has  been 
wrought." 

He  paused  for  just  a  moment  and  I  moved  impa- 
tiently. But  if  I  thought  to  disconcert  him  by  my 
action  I  was  not  rewarded. 

"It  is  possible,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he  continued,  "that 
you  are  familiar  with  the  history  of  the  trade  in 
coolies  between  your  country  and  mine?" 

I  nodded.  "Yes,"  I  answered,  "passably  familiar. 
I  know  that  at  one  time  it  was  black  with  outrages. 
I  know  that  in  1882  a  Chinese  exclusion  act  was 
passed,  and  that  in  1892  the  Geary  law  followed." 

"But  you  did  not  know,  perhaps,  that  in  spite  of 
your  laws,  the  smuggling  of  Chinamen  —  of  Chinese 
laborers  —  into  this  country,  has  been  almost  con- 
tinuously practised?" 

"It  is  quite  possible,  I  dare  say.  I  do  not  know  the 
facts,  however." 

"The  facts  in  a  general  way  are  not  material,"  Yup 
Sing  assured  me.  "But  I  shall  inform  you  of  a 
single  specific  case.  Sixteen  years  ago  there  appeared 

[286] 


THE     SCUTTLED     SHIP 

in  Canton  a  white  man,  supposedly  a  Scotchman, 
calling  himself  Donald  McNish,  and  representing, 
according  to  his  own  statement,  certain  large  Amer- 
ican interests.  Through  a  native  agent  it  became 
known  that  McNish  was  in  search  of  coolies.  Very 
soon,  circulars  appeared  throughout  the  district, 
worded  somewhat  after  this  fashion.  'To  the  country- 
men of  Ah  Shoo.  Laborers  are  wanted  in  the  land 
of  California.  Great  works  to  be  done  there,  good 
houses,  plenty  food.  You  will  get  $20  a  month  and 
good  treatment.  Passage  money  required,  $45.  I 
will  lend  the  money  on  good  security,  but  I  cannot 
take  your  wife  and  child  in  pay.  Come  to  Canton, 
and  I  will  care  for  you  until  the  ship  sails.  The  ship 
is  good.'  The  circular  was  signed  by  Ah  Shoo,  the 
agent.  In  response  to  it,  exactly  ninety-seven  of  my 
countrymen,  having  left  good  security  for  the  re- 
quired passage  money,  were  led  stealthily  aboard  a 
small  coasting  vessel  one  night,  and  the  vessel  slipped 
quietly  down  the  Chu-Kiang  to  the  open  sea,  with  Mc- 
Nish himself  at  the  helm,  and  a  Eurasian  named 
John  Woo,  in  the  galley." 

The  Vice  Consul  was  now  consulting  a  slip  of 
paper  bearing,  as  I  could  see,  certain  Chinese  char- 
acters. 

"If  I  am  in  error,"  said  Yup  Sing,  addressing  his 

[287] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

companion,  "I  pray  you  to  correct  me."  Whereat 
Mr.  Chen  Mok  smiled  reassuringly. 

"You  are  in  all  particulars  accurate,"  he  announced; 
and  the  Mott  Street  merchant,  thus  encouraged,  pro- 
ceeded. 

"The  vessel,  you  understand,  Mr.  Clyde,  was  what 
is  known  in  those  waters  as  a  lorcha.  It  was  not  so 
large  as  a  junk  and  it  differed  in  other  respects  as 
well.  It—" 

"I  think  I  have  seen  a  rude,  but  more  or  less  effect- 
ive representation  of  it,"  I  interrupted. 

"I  know  to  what  you  refer,"  was  the  speaker's  re- 
joinder. "But  that  was  more  or  less  conventional. 
As  I  told  you,  every  child  draws  boats  like  that. 
However,  the  lorcha  was  to  be  used  merely  to  convey 
the  passengers  to  McNish's  steamship,  which  had  al- 
ready cleared  from  Hong  Kong,  and  which  waited  off 
the  coast  well  out  of  sight  of  prying  cruisers.  Such, 
at  least,  was  the  explanation.  Whether  McNish  ever 
had  a  steamship  is  a  matter  for  conjecture.  Whether 
a  United  States  cruiser  of  the  Pacific  Squadron,  hav- 
ing received  a  hint  as  to  his  purpose,  bore  down  upon 
him,  as  has  been  said,  is  likewise  open  to  question.  But 
of  the  truth  of  the  incidents  which  followed  there  can 
be  no  dispute." 

He  hesitated  long  enough  for  the  Vice  Consul  to 

[288] 


THE     SCUTTLED     SHIP 

echo,  "No  dispute,  whatever,  Mr.  Clyde,"  and  con- 
tinued. 

"On  the  second  morning  after  leaving  Canton,  an 
hour  after  dawn,  when  he  at  least  pretended  to  see 
the  cruiser  in  full  chase,  he  ordered  his  passengers  be- 
low, declaring  that  their  safety  depended  upon  their 
keeping  out  of  sight.  No  sooner,  however,  were  they 
below  decks  than  he  battered  down  the  hatches,  and 
imprisoned  the  cook  in  his  galley.  A  white  fog  pre- 
vailed and  the  sea  was  very  calm,  both  of  which 
were  conditions  favorable  to  McNish's  purpose. 
Lowering  the  lorchas  two  boats  he  cut  one  adrift,  and 
entering  the  other,  which  he  had  previously  stocked 
with  stores,  he  made  his  way  in  it  along  the  lorcha's 
side  to  her  prow." 

At  this  juncture,  Yup  Sing  slowly  rose  to  his  feet. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  picture  what 
followed.  Standing  up,  axe  in  hand,  Donald  McNish 
began  his  diabolic  work.  With  strong  arm  he  swung, 
and  close  to  the  water  line  the  blade  bit  deep  into  the 
timbers  of  the  lorchas  bow.  He  swung  again;  and 
again  the  blade  bit  deep.  Once  more,  and  still  once 
more  the  axe  rose  and  fell.  Frantically,  with  fiendish 
purpose  he  plied  his  weapon,  until  there  opened  a  gap- 
ing hole  through  which,  upon  those  ninety-seven 
trapped  souls,  rushed  the  bitter  waters  of  death." 
19  [289] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

It  was  a  very  dramatic  recital.  Unaccompanied 
though  it  was  by  a  single  gesture,  the  speaker's  voice 
lent  itself  most  effectively  to  the  tragedy.  And 
though  I  disliked  and  distrusted  him,  I  was  certainly 
more  or  less  impressed  by  the  scene  he  painted. 

"McNish  escaped,  I  presume?"  I  asked  the  ques- 
tion more  to  relieve  the  tensity  of  the  silence  which 
ensued,  than  because  of  any  doubt  on  this  point. 

"McNish  escaped,"  he  echoed. 

"And  no  one  else?" 

"The  Eurasian  cook  escaped,  too.  He  broke  out 
of  his  galley.  Hastily  he  patched  together  a  raft  and 
reached  land  a  week  later,  more  dead  than  alive." 

"And  all  the  rest  —  those  ninety-seven  deluded, 
tricked  countrymen  of  yours, —  perished?" 

"To  a  man." 

"Then  the  graphic  description  you  have  just  given 
me,  came  —  how?  From  whom?  Certainly  not 
from  the  cook,  who  was  locked  in  the  galley?" 

"Partly  from  the  cook,  yes,"  he  answered,  unmoved. 
"And  partly  from  one  to  whom  McNish,  himself,  de- 
scribed his  own  crime." 

The  Vice  Consul  here  added  a  word. 

"Moreover,"  he  said,  and  his  accent  was  in  marked 
contrast  with  the  merchant's  perfect  English,  "we 
have  corroborative  evidence.  It  happened  that  the 

[290] 


THE     SCUTTLED     SHIP 

lorcha  sank  in  what  you  call  shoal  water.  Six  months 
later,  she  was  declared  a  menace  to  shipping.  Under 
ordinary  conditions  she  would  have  been  dynamited 
where  she  was.  But  because  of  the  tragedy,  she  was 
raised,  and  examined ;  and  the  hole  in  her  bow  proved 
the  truth  of  what  we  had  heard." 

In  spite  of  the  seriously  impressive  manner  of  my 
informants  I  was  far  from  credulous.  Such  a  crime 
might  have  been  perpetrated,  but  I  questioned  that 
the  perpetrator,  for  his  skin's  sake,  if  for  no  other 
reason,  would  ever  have  admitted  the  deed,  much 
less  have  truthfully  detailed  the  manner  of  its  com- 
mission. 

But,  even  admitting  that  there  was  neither  inven- 
tion nor  misrepresentation  in  the  narrative,  I  was  now 
more  than  ever  convinced  that  Robert  Cameron  had  no 
part  in  it,  and  that  in  placing  even  the  slightest  blame 
upon  him  an  egregious  error  had  been  committed. 

"What  you  tell  me,"  I  said,  at  length,  "is  very  in- 
teresting, but  I  do  not  see  just  how  it  applies  to  my 
tortured  and  now  missing  friend." 

The  Vice  Consul  in  an  unguarded  moment  forgot 
himself. 

"You  no  can  see?"  he  queried,  lapsing  for  the  nonce 
into  the  vernacular. 

"I  certainly  can  not." 

[291] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

Mr.  Yup  Sing  indulged  in  the  shadow  of  an  icy 
smile. 

"Your  friend,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he  said,  with  a  brief 
impressive  pause  between  each  word,  "and  Donald 
McNish  are  one  and  the  same  man." 

Up  to  this  point  I  had  maintained  my  poise.  I 
had  listened  with  feigned  respect  and  denied  myself 
the  satisfaction  of  interruptions.  But  at  this  prepos- 
terous claim,  I  could  contain  myself  no  longer.  Be- 
fore the  slowly  spoken  sentence  was  complete  I  had 
sprung  up,  restless  with  impatient  indignation,  my 
blood  throbbing  in  my  temples,  my  hands  itching  to 
throttle  an  honest  man's  traducers. 

"That,"  I  cried,  hoarse  with  exasperation,  "is  a 
damnable  lie  1" 

If  I  expected  retaliation  I  was  disappointed.  Yup 
Sing's  seamed  yellow  face  continued  an  immobile 
mask  for  whatever  emotion  he  may  have  felt,  and 
Chen  Mok  placidly  consulted  his  memoranda. 

"Robert  Cameron,"  I  went  on,  my  passion  whetted 
by  their  indifference,  "has  been  a  gentleman  of  leisure 
and  fortune  always.  Of  all  men  in  the  world  he  is 
the  last  to  be  accused  of  such  a  crime  as  this.  A  sea- 
faring man!  A  smuggler  of  coolies!  It  is  too  pre- 
posterous even  for  discussion.  And  I  want  to  tell 
you  now,  Mr.  Yup,  and  you,  too,  Mr.  Chen,  that  I 

[292] 


THE     SCUTTLED    SHIP 

shall  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  bring  to  justice  those 
who  are  guilty  of  having  made  this  unthinkable  mis- 
take. Hitherto  I  have  been  unable  to  get  a  clew. 
But  what  you  have  said  to-night  does  away  with  that 
difficulty.  Both  of  you  shall  answer,  now,  to  the  au- 
thorities." 

As  I  spoke  I  edged  toward  an  electric  push-button, 
at  the  side  of  the  chimney-piece,  and  at  the  last  word, 
I  pressed  it. 

That  Checkabeedy,  following  my  instructions,  had 
remained  within  close  call  was  demonstrated  by  his 
prompt  appearance. 

"Telephone  the  police  station,"  I  commanded,  "to 
send  two  officers  here  at  once." 


[293] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  TATTOO   MARK 

I  spoke  in  my  ordinary  tone,  the  visit- 
ing Celestials  gave  no  sign  that  they  heard  me. 
I  had  expected  protestation.  I  should  not  have  been 
surprised  had  I  been  forced  to  restrain  them, —  to  make 
them  my  prisoners,  in  fact,  until  the  arrival  of  the 
police.  But  neither  of  them  either  moved  or  spoke, 
until  the  silence,  in  my  nervously  excited  condition, 
becoming  unbearable  to  me,  I  demanded, 

"By  what  right,  Mr.  Yup,  do  you  make  the  asser- 
tion that  my  friend  and  your  enemy  are  one?" 

With  a  supercilious  arrogance  of  manner  that  mad- 
dened me  to  the  limit  of  self-control,  he  made  reply. 

"I  was  coming  to  that,  Mr.  Clyde,  when  you  so 
unfortunately  lost  your  temper.  In  stating  the  pur- 
pose of  our  visit  I  think  I  informed  you  that  it  was 
two-fold.  In  the  first  place,  we  came  to  give  what 
you  had  asked  for  —  information.  In  the  second 
place,  we  came  to  request  something  from  you  — 
assistance.  The  motive  of  the  threatening  letters 
which  Mr.  Cameron  received,  I  think  I  have  made 

[294] 


A    TATTOO    MARK 

clear.  For  sixteen  years  my  people,  the  kinsfolk  of  the 
victims  of  the  Sable  Lorcha,  have  searched  the  world 
for  the  fiend  who  brought  upon  them  a  sorrow  beyond 
any  that  you  of  the  Occident  can  understand.  To  us 
of  the  Celestial  Empire  the  tombs  of  our  fathers  are 
very  dear.  McNish  robbed  these  men  not  only  of 
life  but  of  decent  burial." 

"That  is  all  very  well,"  I  exclaimed,  impatiently, 
"but  can't  you  see  that  a  terrible  mistake  has  been 
made?  Why  under  heaven  you  should  fancy  that  in 
Mr.  Cameron,  a  gentleman  to  his  finger-tips,  you  have 
found  this  outlaw  McNish  is  incomprehensible." 

Once  more  Yup  Sing  smiled  his  icy  smile  and  the 
Vice  Consul  made  as  if  to  speak,  but  thinking  bet- 
ter of  it,  apparently,  maintained  his  stolid  silence. 

"You  were  coming  to  that,"  I  urged. 

"The  man  to  whom  McNish  boasted  of  his  deed 
was  the  man  who  identified  him.  They  had  been 
partners  in  the  Far  East  in  the  trade  of  smuggling 
coolies.  The  one,  I  have  no  doubt,  was  no  better  than 
the  other;  yet  we  believe  that  our  informant  was  nei- 
ther directly  nor  indirectly  concerned  in  the  particular 
piece  of  brutality  of  which  I  have  told  you.  Event- 
ually, he  and  McNish  quarrelled  and  parted.  For 
some  years  he  lost  all  trace  of  him;  and  then  by  acci- 
dent, one  day  he  came  upon  him,  here  in  America, 

[295] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

living  in  a  palace  on  Long  Island  Sound  and  mas- 
querading under  a  new  name." 

"A  resemblance!"  I  cried,  in  a  passion  of  indigna- 
tion. "A  mere  resemblance!  And  on  that  you  and 
your  people  conspire  to  torment  and  abduct  a  purely 
innocent  man.  Was  ever  such  an  outrage  heard  of! 
Every  one  of  you  shall  pay  dear  for  this  error." 

I  might  have  been  the  fire  wood  sputtering  on  the 
hearth  for  all  the  effect  my  vehemence  had  upon  that 
precious  pair  of  Mongolians. 

"We  understand,"  the  spokesman  resumed,  "that 
your  friend  managed  in  some  way  to  escape  from  his 
captors,  and  is  now  in  this  house." 

"Yes,"  I  returned,  hotly.  "He  's  here,  more  dead 
than  alive  unfortunately;  but  he  is  coming  around 
slowly  and  will  be  quite  able  to  testify  when  the  time 


comes." 


"Mr.  Chen  Mok,"  he  proceeded,  calmly,  "has  com- 
municated with  the  State  Department  at  Washing- 
ton, and  the  United  States  authorities  are  now  only 
waiting  our  word  to  put  your  good,  gentlemanly 
friend  under  arrest,  Mr.  Clyde,  for  the  crime  he  com- 
mitted on  the  high  seas,  sixteen  years  ago." 

For  a  moment  I  stared  at  them  in  silent  amazement. 

"You  're  both  mad,"  I  exploded  at  length,  "both 
crazy.  Do  you  think  for  one  moment  I  believe  such 

[296] 


A    TATTOO    MARK 

rot  as  that?  Even  if  what  you  say  were  possible, — 
and  it  is  n't  —  you  would  have  to  identify  the  accused 
by  something  better  than  the  mere  word  of  a  man  who 
had  n't  seen  him  for  years.  Of  what  use  would  such 
an  identification  be  against  the  testimony  of  Mr. 
Cameron's  life-long  friends?" 

"Since  you  doubt  our  ability  to  identify,"  was  Mr. 
Yup's  prompt  rejoinder,  "I  may  add  that  there  are 
two  marks  of  identification,  which  must,  I  think,  con- 
vince even  yourself." 

I  laughed  grimly.  So  that  was  their  game!  For 
nearly  a  month  Cameron  had  been  their  prisoner.  In 
that  time  they  had  examined,  inspected,  inventoried 
him.  His  scars,  moles,  birthmarks  had  been  listed, 
and  were  now  to  be  used  to  identify  him  with  a  rene- 
gade murderer  of  Chinese  coolies. 

I  told  my  slant-eyed  visitors  that  their  trick  was 
transparent.  But  they  only  looked  at  me  with  an 
expression  which  seemed  half  pity  and  half  contempt. 

"Did  you  ever  observe  a  tattoo  mark  on  your 
friend's  left  forearm?"  asked  Mr.  Chen  Mok. 

"Never,"  I  answered. 

"He  has  one  there." 

"I  am  willing  to  wager  something  valuable  he  has  n't 
a  tattoo  mark  anywhere  on  his  person,"  I  retorted, 
"and  I  '11  prove  it  in  five  minutes." 

[297] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"We  shall  be  glad  to  have  the  proof,"  said  Yup 
Sing. 

Once  more  I  pressed  the  button  at  the  side  of  the 
chimney-piece,  and  once  again  Checkabedy  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

"You  telephoned?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  good.  Now  send  Mr.  Bryan  to  me  here,  at 
once."  Then  turning  to  Cameron's  accusers,  I  ex- 
plained: "Mr.  Bryan,  for  whom  I  have  just  sent,  is 
nursing  my  friend.  He  would  naturally  know  if 
what  you  say  is  true." 

To  my  surprise  they  made  no  demur.  Yup  Sing, 
however,  asked  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  put  to 
the  nurse  the  necessary  questions,  and  as  I  was  per- 
fectly confident  that  no  incriminating  answers  could 
be  given,  no  matter  what  the  form  of  catechism,  I  will- 
ingly acceded. 

Had  I  not  played  tennis  and  golf  with  Cameron 
scores  of  times  on  hot  summer  days  when,  with 
shirt  sleeves  rolled  above  his  elbows,  his  forearms 
were  bared  to  view?  Could  there  by  any  possibility 
have  been  a  tattoo  mark  there,  and  I  not  have 
seen  it? 

Mr.  Bryan  came  quickly,  a  little  puzzled,  seem- 
ingly, at  being  called  to  such  an  audience.  Purposely 

[298] 


A    TATTOO    MARK 

I  kept  silence,  merely  waving  an  introductory  hand 
toward  the  two  Chinamen. 

Yup  Sing  tactfully  explained  the  situation. 

"A  question  has  arisen,  Mr.  Bryan,"  he  said,  with 
more  of  suavity  in  his  tone  than  I  had  hitherto  ob- 
served, "whether  by  any  chance  your  patient  has  a 
mark  of  any  character  whatever  tattooed  upon  his  left 
forearm.  If  you  have  observed  such,  we  shall  be  glad 
if  you  will  kindly  describe  it." 

The  nurse  flung  a  questioning  glance  at  me,  and 
I  nodded  reassuringly.  I  did  not  wonder  that  he  was 
surprised  at  the  question. 

"Is  there,  or  is  there  not,  such  a  mark?"  the  Ori- 
ental urged. 

"There  is;  yes,  sir." 

I  think,  involuntarily,  I  started  forward.  I  know 
that  for  just  a  breath  I  thought  my  ears  had  played 
me  a  trick.  Then,  suddenly,  there  swept  back  across 
my  memory  that  expression  of  Checkabeedy's, 
"Who  between  you  and  me,  sir,  I  don't  trust,  nohow." 
Could  it  be  possible  that  Bryan  was  in  the  conspiracy? 
But  only  for  the  briefest  moment  did  this  doubt  sway 
amid  the  welter  of  my  thoughts.  Into  its  place  rolled 
an  amazement  that  shocked  and  stunned ;  that  checked 
me  all  standing,  as  it  were ;  for  Bryan  was  amplifying, 
was  telling  about  the  mark,  which  he  had  first  noticed, 

[299] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

he  said,  on  the  night  of  his  arrival,  and  which  he  had 
examined  more  closely  on  several  occasions  since. 

"It 's  evidently  a  representation  of  some  sort  of 
sailing  vessel,"  he  explained,  "with  a  curved  hull  and 
a  single  broad  sail.  And  below  it  are  three  letters: 
D.  M.  N." 

Blindly  I  clutched  the  back  of  a  chair  with  both 
hands,  for  a  sense  of  unreality  oppressed  me,  and  the 
room  itself  became  waveringly  unsubstantial. 

It  was  not  true,  of  course,  this  that  Bryan  was 
saying.  Nothing  was  true.  Nothing  was  real.  It 
was  all  a  nightmare;  and  the  two  gloating  yellow 
masks  were  horrible  dream  faces. 

"And  you  have  probably  noticed  a  scar  —  a  long 
livid  scar?" 

It  was  Yup  Sing's  voice  I  heard.  He  was  still 
questioning  the  nurse.  And  now  Bryan  would  make 
another  preposterous  answer,  just  as  persons  always 
do  in  dreams.  I  knew  he  would.  So  when  he  said, 
"Yes,  sir,  just  between  the  left  shoulder  blade  and  the 
spinal  column.  It  looks  as  though  it  were  the  mark 
of  a  deep  and  vicious  knife  slash,"  I  was  not  in  the 
least  surprised. 

Checkabeedy  brought  me  back  to  a  realization  of 
time  and  place.  He  spoke  my  name  in  a  half- 
whisper  and  I  awoke  again  to  realities  with  a  start. 

[300] 


A    TATTOO    MARK 

"The  officers  are  here,  sir,"  he  informed  me,  matter- 
of-factly. 

"The  officers?"  I  repeated,  and  then,  memory  re- 
asserting itself,  I  added,  "Oh,  yes,  of  course.  Ask 
them  to  wait  just  a  moment,  Checkabeedy." 

Into  the  mental  marshalling  of  facts  which  ensued 
there  came  a  vivid  memory  of  that  weird  scene  in  the 
sick-chamber  when  Cameron  had  raved  hi  a  strange 
tongue,  mingled  with  words  of  pidgin-English  and  a 
few  phrases, —  incriminating  phrases,  in  the  light  of 
to-night's  revelation  —  of  vigorous  vernacular.  If 
what  Bryan  had  said  was  true  —  and  for  him  to  lie 
about  a  matter  as  readily  demonstrable  was  hardly 
to  be  considered  —  I  must  conclude  myself  beaten  at 
all  points.  From  first  to  last,  then,  I  had  been  defend- 
ing a  creature  unworthy  of  defence. 

It  was  difficult  to  accept  this  conclusion.  Mind 
and  heart  alike  were  arrayed  against  it.  Yet,  think- 
ing clearly  now,  I  recognized  fully  the  position  in 
which  I  had  placed  myself.  I  had  been  willing  to 
swear,  to  wager,  there  was  no  tattoo  mark,  and  the 
best  evidence  —  my  own  witness  —  had  proved  me 
wrong.  Certainly  I  could  expect  no  mild  judgment 
from  these  Asiatics.  Honest  as  I  had  been,  they 
must  believe  that  I  had  known,  and  had  meant  to  de- 
ceive them.  They  probably  thought  that  I  had 

[301] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

signalled  to  Bryan  to  endorse  me  in  my  lies,  and  that 
the  nurse  had  either  misunderstood  or  openly  rebelled. 

Before  Checkabeedy  had  reached  the  door,  I  re- 
called him. 

"On  second  thought,"  I  said,  "the  officers  need  not 
wait.  Tell  them  that  it  was  a  mistake.  I  shall  not 
require  them." 

Turning  to  Yup  Sing  and  his  companion,  I  added, 

"What  Mr.  Bryan  has  told  you  is  the  greatest  sur- 
prise to  me.  Even  yet  I  can  scarcely  believe  it,  unless 
the  mark  and  the  scar  were  obtained  while  my  friend 
was  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  your  countrymen." 

"Tattoo  marks  and  scars  show  age  no  less  than 
faces,"  the  merchant  replied.  "Both  of  these  are  years 
old.  Any  capable  judge  of  such  things  will  tell  you 
that.  Possibly  Mr.  Bryan  can  tell." 

"The  scar  is  not  a  fresh  scar,"  said  the  nurse.  "As 
to  tattoo  marks,  I  am  not  experienced ;  but  I  should  n't 
think  the  mark  on  Mr.  Cameron's  arm  was  put  there 
recently." 

"Gentlemen,"  I  said,  making  a  final  stand,  "while 
I  do  not  question  Mr.  Bryan's  entire  honesty  in  this 
matter,  nevertheless  I  prefer  to  see  these  marks  of 
identification,  myself.  If  you  will  excuse  us  for  five 
minutes,  I  shall  not  be  longer." 

[302] 


A    TATTOO    MARK 

At  the  foot  of  the  grand  staircase,  Evelyn  joined 
me.  Bryan,  at  my  suggestion,  went  on  to  the  elevator 
and  ascended  that  way,  while  she  and  I  slowly  climbed 
the  broad,  velvet-carpeted  marble  steps  to  the  floor 
above. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming  out  of  that 
room,"  she  declared,  nervously.  "Once,  I  was  on  the 
verge  of  going  after  you.  The  first  time  you  rang 
for  Checkabeedy,  I  mean.  .  .  .  What  did  you 
have  him  telephone  for?  He  absolutely  refused 
to  tell  me.  .  .  .  Was  it  the  two  policemen? 
.  .  .  What  did  you  want  them  for?  .  .  .  Why 
did  you  let  them  go  away  again?  .  .  .  Are  n't 
those  Chinamen  ever  going?  .  .  .  What  on  earth 
did  you  want  with  Mr.  Bryan?  .  .  .  What  are 
you  going  upstairs  for,  now?" 

How  tactfully  I  answered  these  questions  and 
others  I  shall  not  attempt  to  decide.  I  know  only  that 
I  set  my  teeth  to  guard  the  one  problem  which  ab- 
sorbed me,  and  which  for  worlds  I  would  not  have  her 
know. 

"It  is  all  right,  Evelyn,"  I  assured  her,  over 
and  over  again.  "There  is  not  the  smallest  danger. 
.  .  .  They  came  to  give  me  information.  .  .  . 
You  must  be  very  tired,  little  girl.  .  .  .  Go  to 

[303] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

bed,  now,  and  forget  it  all  until  morning.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  '11  tell  you  everything,  then." 

I  wonder  how  many  women  there  are  who,  burning 
with  curiosity  as  she  was,  would  have  obliged  me  as 
she  did!  Is  it  pardonable,  then,  if  again  I  say  that 
throughout  all  this  trying  experience  she  proved  her- 
self a  girl  of  a  thousand? 

Bryan  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  passage  outside 
Cameron's  door. 

"I  left  him  sleeping,"  he  explained,  "and,  if  pos- 
sible, I  don't  wish  to  disturb  him ;  so  we  '11  go  in  quietly 
together." 

Slowly  and  with  infinite  care  lest  he  make  the 
least  noise  he  turned  the  knob.  Quite  as  cautiously 
he  opened  the  door,  and  tiptoeing  softly,  we 
entered. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  in  the  room  since 
the  day  of  that  terrible  outburst,  and  it  still  held  for 
me  an  atmosphere  as  grewsomely  forbidding  as  that 
of  a  tomb. 

Only  one  lowered  light  burned,  over  a  tall,  antique 
bureau  between  the  darkly  curtained  windows;  the 
chamber  was  in  semi-gloom.  But  scarcely  had  I 
passed  Bryan,  who  stopped  to  close  the  door  with  the 
same  adroit  silence  with  which  he  had  accomplished 
its  opening,  than  a  stealthily  moving  white  figure 

[304] 


At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  Evelyn  joined  me. 


A    TATTOO    MARK 

defined  itself,  issuing,  apparently  from  a  massive 
carved  wardrobe,  which  stood  against  the  wall  oppo- 
site the  huge,  testered  bed. 

The  spectacle  was  at  least  arresting.  I  know  I 
halted  abruptly  as  if  stricken  all  at  once  with  total 
paralysis.  For  a  heart-beat  or  two  I  think  I  stopped 
breathing.  But  my  eyes  meanwhile  were  strained 
fixedly  upon  the  apparition,  and  seeing  it  pass  with 
almost  incredible  swiftness  beneath  the  one  dim  light 
above  the  bureau,  I  recognized  Cameron. 

At  the  same  moment  the  room  was  flooded  with  a 
sudden  glare.  Bryan  too,  had  seen,  and  had  switched 
on  the  electrics.  Simultaneously  he  flashed  past  me 
and  was  at  his  patient's  side. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  I  heard  him  say.  "What 
did  you  want?  Can't  I  trust  you  alone  for  ten  min- 
utes? I  told  you,  Mr.  Cameron,  that  you  must  not 
leave  your  bed  unless  I  am  with  you." 

I  saw  Cameron  cower  under  the  upbraiding.  In 
his  eyes  I  read  terror,  and  all  my  sympathy  was 
aroused  on  the  instant.  Bryan  might  be  carrying  out 
Dr.  Massey's  orders,  but  he  appeared  to  me  unneces- 
sarily harsh. 

"What  were  you  doing?"  he  insisted;  and  then  I 
saw  him  roughly  grasp  his  patient's  arm  and  hold  it 
up,  revealing  a  tightly  clenched  hand. 
20  [305] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"Mr.  Bryan!"  I  cried  in  remonstrance.  "Gently, 
gently.  Remember  — " 

But  the  nurse  paid  small  heed  to  me.  He  was 
busy  opening  the  doubled  fist. 

I  stood  now  where  I  could  look  Cameron  squarely 
in  the  face,  but  my  gaze  was  elsewhere.  It  was  his 
left  hand  over  which  Bryan  was  engaged,  and  from 
his  wrist  to  his  elbow  the  sleeve  of  his  white  night  robe 
had  been  pushed  back,  exposing  a  sinewy  forearm, 
marked  precisely  as  Bryan  had  described  it. 

Scrutinizingly  I  bent  forward.  The  tattooing  was 
indisputable,  and,  as  the  nurse  had  said,  it  bore  no 
evidence  of  being  recent  work. 

Up  to  that  moment  I  had  hoped  against  hope  that 
in  some  way  or  other  a  misconception  had  occurred.  I 
had  hoped,  I  suppose,  for  the  performance  of  some 
miracle  which  would  exonerate  this  man.  And  now 
that  hope  was  obliterated  by  those  blue-pricked  letters 
D.  M.  N.  beneath  an  almost  exact  facsimile  of  the 
black  smudge  which  had  taken  the  place  of  signature 
on  each  of  the  three  threatening  letters  —  the  black 
smudge,  of  which  Cameron,  wearing  it  then  indelibly 
upon  his  cuticle,  had  dared  to  feign  utter  ignorance. 

And  yet,  I  asked  myself  once  more,  how  was  it 
that  I  had  never  noticed  it  before?  Again  and  again 
I  had  seen  that  forearm  bared.  Surely  I  would  have 

[306] 


A    TATTOO    MARK 

observed  so  odd  a  mark ;  certainly  I  would  have  been 
perplexed  by  those  three  unfitting  initials. 

"There,  now!"  Bryan  was  saying.  "Back  to  bed 
with  you,  Mr.  Cameron.  What  did  you  want  this 
letter  for,  anyway?  If  it  was  necessary  for  you  to 
have  it,  couldn't  I  have  got  it  for  you?" 

"Give  it  back  to  me!"  Cameron  was  pleading,  pite- 
ously.  "Give  it  back  to  me !  It  is  a  private  matter. 
Give  it  back  to  me,  or  destroy  it  before  my  eyes. 
Burn  it,  here,  before  me." 

"Let  me  have  it,  Mr.  Bryan,"  I  asked,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  unhappy  gentleman  I  said,  "You  '11  trust 
me,  won't  you,  Cameron?  I  '11  destroy  it,  unread,  if 
you  wish  it." 

"No,  no  no,"  he  objected,  earnestly.  "Give  it 
back  to  me." 

But  even  as  he  demanded  it,  Bryan  put  it  in  my 
hands;  and  spreading  it  out, —  for  it  had  been 
crumpled  to  a  pellet  in  the  invalid's  clutch, —  I  was 
about  to  humor  him,  when  the  superscription  caught 
my  eye  and  held  it. 

The  envelope  bore  the  name  and  address :  er Donald 
McNish,  Taylor's  Hotel,  New  York  City,  U.  S.  A" 


[S07] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ANOTHER   PROBLEM   CROPS  UP 

HPHERE  are,  I  dare  say,  those  who  will  not  hesi- 
tate to  charge  me  with  an  unpardonable  lack  of 
perception.  "Even  from  your  own  telling,"  they  will 
probably  declare,  "we  realized  from  the  first  that  the 
creature  you  discovered  at  two  in  the  morning,  sup- 
porting himself  by  means  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  area 
railing,  was  not  Robert  Cameron,  but  his  physical 
counterpart,  and  a  not  very  deceptive  counterpart  at 
that." 

I  shall  not  dispute  the  justice  of  the  criticism.  As 
I  look  back  at  it  all  now,  I  sometimes  wonder,  my- 
self, how  I  could  have  been  so  blind,  so  credulous. 
And  yet  there  is  something  to  be  said  on  the  other  side, 
too.  An  able  advocate,  I  believe,  might  make  out  a 
fairly  strong  case  for  me  if  I  were  disposed  to  defend 
myself;  which,  as  it  happens,  I  am  not,  since  the  ver- 
dict can  make  no  possible  difference  either  to  you  or 
to  me,  and  would  only  delay  the  culmination  of  our 
narrative. 

Nevertheless  I  must  tell  that  for  some  minutes  after 

[808] 


ANOTHER    PROBLEM 

reading  the  letter  which  had  so  opportunely  fallen 
into  my  hands  I  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  in  the 
glare  of  the  blazing  electrics,  studied  with  keenest 
scrutiny  the  face  which  had  so  deceived  me. 

In  general  contour  and  individual  feature  the  like- 
ness to  Cameron. was  monstrous  in  its  fidelity.  The 
same  rugged  power,  inherited  from  Scottish  forbears, 
was  traceable  in  every  lineament.  But  there  the  simi- 
larity ended.  The  face  I  gazed  upon  lacked  illumina- 
tion. Character,  so  strongly  indicated  in  the  other, 
was  from  this  totally  absent.  In  its  place  was  an  ad- 
mixture of  craft  and  brutality,  so  palpable,  now  — 
so  clearly,  unmistakably  evident  —  that  I  marvelled 
at  my  former  delusion.  k 

It  was  the  newspaper  puzzle  picture  over  again. 
Having  at  length  discovered  the  hidden  rabbit  I  could 
see  nothing  else  whatever.  It  dominated  the  drawing. 
It  fairly  sprang  at  me  from  out  the  printed  page. 

There  was  still  another  feature  of  the  revelation, 
however,  which  held  a  contrasting  pathos.  The  letter 
which  carried  conviction  beyond  all  possible  dispute 
was  from  Donald  McNish's  aged  mother.  And  while 
it  tempered  in  a  measure  the  harshness  of  my  judg- 
ment against  the  son,  it  was  of  tragic  import,  in  that 
it  was  the  one  potent  piece  of  evidence  in  his  undoing, 
severing  the  last  link  in  the  chain  which  connected  his 

[309] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

identity    with    that    of    the    shamefully    maligned 
Cameron. 

Evelyn  wept  over  this  letter,  and  I  am  not  sure 
but  that  my  own  sight  grew  hazy,  too,  as  I  read  the 
fond,  quaintly  couched  phrases  of  endearment,  penned 
half  a  year  back  in  Dundee,  by  this  God-fearing  old 
Scotchwoman,  to  that  infamous,  blood-stained  re- 
probate, who,  to  her,  was  still  her  "ain  bonnie  bairn." 

It  all  came  out,  eventually,  that  McNish  had  trav- 
elled the  world  over  in  the  sixteen  years  intervening 
since  the  coolie  massacre,  employing  a  score  or  more 
of  aliases  and  so  studiously  avoiding  the  name  by  which 
he  had  then  been  known,  as  to  have  almost  forgotten 
it,  probably,  himself,  until,  yielding  to  the  call  of 
home,  he  had  at  some  early  period  of  the  last  twelve- 
month returned  for  a  brief  visit  to  his  native  town  and 
his  septuagenarian  mother. 

It  was  then,  most  likely,  that  he  gave  to  her  the 
address  of  the  New  York  hotel.  Fate  influenced  the 
mother  to  write,  and  Fate  sent  the  son  there  six  months 
later  to  get  the  letter,  and  so  carry  upon  his  person  the 
confirmatory  evidence  of  his  identity,  just  at  the  time 
when  it  would  prove  fatal. 

"How  did  it  happen,"  I  have  been  asked,  "that 
you  did  n't  examine  immediately  the  clothes  that  the 
supposed  Cameron  wore,  when  you  found  him?" 


ANOTHER    PROBLEM 

In  view  of  subsequent  events  it  is  very  easy  to  see 
what  an  important  bearing  such  an  examination  would 
have  had.  But  at  the  time,  there  was  no  one  who 
thought  of  it.  Our  chief  purpose  then  was  to  get  the 
injured  man  to  bed,  and  to  secure  a  physician  and 
nurse  to  minister  to  his  recovery.  If  he  had  been 
found  dead,  then,  of  course,  we  should  have  gleaned 
what  information  we  could  from  his  pockets.  But 
we  daily  expected  him  to  be  able  to  tell  his  own  story, 
and  in  the  anxiety  and  confusion  of  the  moment  the 
possible  pregnancy  of  the  disclosures  that  lurked  in 
his  apparel  was  entirely  lost  sight  of. 

When  we  did  make  the  examination,  on  the  morn- 
ing following  the  episode  of  the  letter,  it  was  to  dis- 
cover that  the  suit  and  overcoat  worn  by  McNish  were 
of  Scotch  manufacture,  having  been  made  in  Dundee, 
according  to  sewn-in  labels,  early  in  the  current  year. 

The  contents  of  the  pockets  were  not  significant. 
The  letter  he  had  been  so  anxious  to  secure  and  de- 
stroy was  the  only  letter,  apparently,  he  had  carried. 
There  was  a  cheque-book  on  a  Chicago  bank,  and  there 
was  a  wallet  containing  a  small  sum  of  money  in  bills, 
and  a  few  business  cards  of  importing  houses,  which 
we  took  to  indicate  that  the  possessor  was  still  des- 
ultorily engaged  in  trade,  or  some  species  of  smug- 
gling, with  the  Malay  states  and  the  Straits  settle- 
Can] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

ments  as  his  field,  since  most  of  the  cards  made  ref- 
erence to  goods  of  such  origin. 

That  morning,  which  succeeded  the  night  of  ex- 
citing events  already  detailed,  was  crowded  with 
another  succession  of  happenings  scarcely  less  sen- 
sational. 

At  seven  o'clock,  O'Hara,  in  obedience  to  my  in- 
structions came  to  my  rooms  in  the  Loyalton,  rousing 
me  out  of  a  heavy  sleep;  for  I  had  not  got  to  bed 
until  four,  and  then  had  lain  awake  with  teeming  brain 
until  after  five.  I  received  him  in  bath  robe  and 
moles,  sitting  on  the  bedside,  and  sipping  coffee,  while 
he,  perched  on  a  low,  brass-bound  clothes  chest, 
poured  forth  his  story. 

"Sleep!"  he  echoed,  when  I  had  made  my  apologies. 
"I  have  n't  had  a  wink,  myself.  I  Ve  been  with  the 
boys  all  night  doing  as  pretty  a  round-up  as  you  ever 
see.  We  Ve  got  the  bunch  right  this  time,  Mr.  Clyde, 
and  there  '11  be  a  clearin'  out  down  there  in  China- 
town such  as  has  n't  been  known  since  the  Chinks  dis- 
covered Doyers  Street." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  encouragingly. 

"It 's  another  war  of  the  tongs,"  he  went  on. 
"They  have  'em,  periodically,  you  know,  and  there  's 
always  a  few  of  the  moon-faced  boys  snuffed  out, 
which  ain't  much  loss  nohow.  But  this  time  they 

[812] 


ANOTHER    PROBLEM 

interfered,  you  see,  with  you  and  Miss  Grayson,  and 
they  beat  up  that  driver  of  your  buzz-carriage  some- 
thing fierce ;  and  the  Commissioner  's  issued  orders 
to  put  the  whole  yellow  population  on  the  pan  if  neces- 
sary to  get  the  ones  what  is  responsible." 

"Were  any  arrests  made?"  I  inquired. 

O'Hara  smiled.  "Were  any  arrests  made?"  he  re- 
peated in  a  tone  that  indicated  supreme  pity  for  my 
ignorance.  "Why,  we  took  'em  in  by  the  wholesale. 
We  lowered  the  net  and  dragged  it  and  you  ought 
to  see  what  come  up.  There  was  one  fellow,  a 
skinny  old  geezer  half-breed,  neither  Chink  nor  white 
man,  but  a  slimy  mixture  of  all  that 's  bad  in  the  two. 
We  Ve  had  him  on  the  griddle  all  night.  Talk  about 
the  third  degree !  He  got  it  good,  and  he  's  made 
enough  admissions  already  to  send  him  straight  to  the 
chair." 

"And  Murphy?"  I  suggested. 

"He's  a  tough  one,  that  lad!  When  they'd 
brought  him  to,  they  figured  they  'd  get  him  to  con- 
vict himself  in  the  same  old  way.  But  there  was 
nothin'  doing.  He  just  shut  his  trap,  and  not  a  word 
would  he  answer  one  way  or  the  other.  But  his  turn  '11 
come,  all  right.  I  Ve  got  it  on  him,  Mr.  Clyde. 
While  I  Ve  been  shadowin'  him  for  the  past  month 
I  Ve  picked  up  a  bunch  of  stuff  that  '11  come  in  good. 

[sis] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

To  begin  with,  his  name  ain't  Murphy.  It 's  Pat 
Moran,  and  his  mug 's  at  headquarters." 

"His  mug?" 

"Sure !  In  the  Rogue's  Gallery.  And  his  record  's 
there,  too.  He  's  done  time,  already." 

'Tor  what?" 

"For  stabbin'  a  man  in  the  back." 

It  requires  no  great  mathematical  ability  to  put  two 
and  two  together.  The  result  is  always  either  four 
or  twenty-two.  So,  in  logic,  the  answer  is  invariably 
either  right  or  wrong.  Murphy  had  stabbed  a  man  in 
the  back;  McNish  carried  the  scar  of  a  knife  wound 
under  his  shoulder  blade.  There  were  the  two  and 
two. 

"What  were  the  facts?"  I  asked,  with  kindled  in- 
terest. "Whom  did  he  stab?  When?  Where?" 

"The  bloke's  name,"  O'Hara  answered,  after  a  mo- 
ment's thumbing  of  his  note  book,  "was  MacNichol  — 
Douglass  MacNichol.  It  was  in  Buffalo,  in  1900." 

My  putting  together  promised  a  satisfactory  an- 
swer. The  similarity  of  names  could  hardly  be  a  coin- 
cidence. 

"Pat  Moran  served  five  years  in  Auburn,"  the  de- 
tective added. 

"You  don't  know  what  became  of  McNish  —  I 
mean  MacNichol?" 

[814] 


ANOTHER    PROBLEM 

"No." 

"Nor  any  facts  about  the  cause  of  the  stabbing?" 

"That 's  easy  got,"  O'Hara  informed  me.  "But  it 
ain't  in  the  record  at  headquarters.  What  is  there, 
though,  is  that  Moran  had  lived  in  Chinatown  in 
Frisco,  and  was  arrested  there  and  tried  for  smuggling 
opium,  but  was  acquitted  for  lack  of  evidence." 

For  a  moment  I  sipped  my  coffee  in  thoughtful 
silence. 

"The  skeleton  guy  knows  Moran,  all  right," 
O'Hara  broke  in. 

"You  mean  the  half-breed  ?" 

"Yes.     He  give  that  away." 

"What  does  he  call  himself?" 

"He  's  known  in  Chinatown  as  John  Soy.  He  says 
he  's  a  cook." 

Once  again  I  was  busy  with  two  and  two.  Unless 
all  signs  failed  this  John  Soy  and  Peter  Johnson  and 
the  Eurasian  cook  of  the  Sable  Lorcha  were  a  single 
entity. 

"O'Hara,"  I  said,  finishing  my  coffee,  and  putting 
down  the  cup  and  saucer,  "I  have  the  key  witness  in 
this  case.  You  and  I  together  are  going  to  take  him 
with  us  and  have  him  confront  both  Murphy  and  John 
Soy.  I  promise  you  the  result  will  be  interesting." 

The  detective  looked  his  perplexity. 

[315] 


"Some  one  who  knows  them?"  he  asked. 

"Unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken,"  I  answered, 
"it  is  some  one  who  knows  them  both  better  than  any 
other  person  in  New  York.  Unless  Heaven  is  just 
now  engaged  in  constructing  enigmas  simply  for  the 
bewilderment  of  us  mortals,  the  witness  I  have  is  the 
man  whom  Murphy  stabbed  in  the  back,  in  Buffalo, 
eight  years  ago." 

But  before  I  could  carry  out  my  plan  there  were 
several  minor  matters  which  claimed  my  attention. 
Ever  since  reading  the  note  which  Miss  Clement 
placed  in  my  hands  I  had  been  uneasy  concerning  her 
safety.  To  judge  from  O'Hara's  report  Chinatown 
had  been  in  a  ferment  most  of  the  night,  and  I  feared 
lest  the  blame  for  the  disturbance  be  visited  upon  the 
brave  woman  missionary  and  some  measures  of  ven- 
geance meted  out  to  her. 

For  half  an  hour  I  tried  unsuccessfully  to  reach  her 
by  telephone.  The  Mission  did  not  answer.  With 
my  anxiety  intensified  by  this  repeated  failure,  I 
ordered  my  motor  car  around  at  once,  and  taking 
O'Hara  with  me,  made  the  trip  to  Pell  Street  in 
record  time,  despite  obstructive  trucks  and  other  ve- 
hicles which  were  encountered,  the  hour  being  still 
early,  in  maddening  frequency. 

Eager   inquiry   of   none-too-loquacious   neighbors 

[316] 


ANOTHER    PROBLEM 

eventually  elicited  the  information  that  Miss  Clement, 
alive  and  uninjured,  had  started  at  daybreak,  if  not 
indeed  before,  to  hunt  up  a  brother  of  the  murdered 
Ling  Fo,  in  Long  Island  City. 

Half  an  hour  later,  having  stopped  at  Bellevue 
Hospital  on  the  way  up  town  to  inquire  as  to  the  con- 
dition of  Eloi  Lacoste,  the  injured  chauffeur,  and 
leave  instructions  that  everything  possible  should  be 
done  for  his  comfort,  I  alighted  from  the  car  at  the 
door  of  Dr.  Massey's  office  on  West  Fifty-sixth 
Street. 

I  trust  I  am  not  that  type  of  man  which,  when 
guilty  of  error,  delights  to  shift  the  responsibility  to 
other  shoulders.  I  had  small  excuse  to  make  for  my- 
self in  confounding  McNish  with  Cameron,  yet  I 
confess  I  had  much  less  for  the  family  physician,  who 
had  been  so  easily  deceived. 

Dr.  Massey  greeted  me  almost  jovially,  but  checked 
himself  as  he  observed  the  seriousness,  the  coolness 
even,  of  my  manner. 

"Our  —  our  patient  is  not  worse?"  he  questioned, 
taken  aback. 

"No,  Doctor,"  I  answered,  tempted  to  a  grim 
humor,  "that  would  be  impossible,  I  fancy." 

For  a  second  he  regarded  me  with  frowning  incom- 
prehension. 

[817] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"Our  patient,"  I  repeated  with  a  sarcastic  emphasis 
that  could  not  be  misunderstood,  "long  ago,  I  fancy, 
reached  the  limit  of  blackguardism." 

The  doctor's  eyes  widened,  his  lips  parted  and  he 
stood  aghast. 

"But, —  but  —  I  don't  quite  see,"  he  stammered. 
"You  have  quarrelled  with  Mr.  Cameron?  You 
have—" 

"No,  no,"  I  returned,  interrupting  him.  "Would 
to  God  I  had  him  here  to  quarrel  with.  Miss  Gray- 
son  was  right.  The  man  you  have  been  using  your 
skill  upon  is  no  more  Robert  Cameron  than  I  am." 

I  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  irritated  or  amused  by 
that  which  followed.  Dr.  Massey  threw  back  his  head 
and  roared  with  boisterous  laughter. 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  That 's  the  richest  kind  of  a 
joke,  my  dear  fellow!"  he  exclaimed,  as  his  mirth  sub- 
sided. "Not  Robert  Cameron?  Why,  do  you  know, 
Mr.  Clyde,  how  many  years  I  have  been  his  physician  ? 
No.  Of  course  you  don't.  Ten  years  and  over,  and 
I  know  Cameron  as  I  know  myself." 

"Then  tell  me,"  I  said,  irritation  having  its  way, 
"why  on  earth  he  ever  had  the  initials  D.  M.  N.  tat- 
tooed on  his  left  arm?" 

The  doctor's  quick  changes  of  expression  were  be- 
coming an  interesting  study.  The  smile  which  had 

[318] 


ANOTHER    PROBLEM 

lingered  after  the  laughter,  now  gave  way  to  a  low- 
ered brow  and  pursed  lips. 

"A  tattoo  mark  on  his  left  arm?"  he  repeated, 
slowly.  "There  's  no  such  thing  there." 

"But  there  is,"  I  insisted;  "there  is,  at  least,  on  the 
left  arm  of  the  man  you  've  been  treating." 

Dr.  Massey  was  still  thoughtful. 

"There  is  some  mistake,"  he  decided. 

"No,  there  is  no  mistake,"  I  assured  him.  "Miss 
Grayson's  eyes  were  better  than  either  yours  or  mine. 
She  saw  at  once  that  this  outlaw  was  not  her  uncle, 
and  you  and  I  fancied  we  knew  better.  If  you  are 
still  unconvinced,  Doctor,  I  '11  run  you  up  in  my  car, 
which  is  at  the  door,  and  you  shall  satisfy  yourself. 
Meanwhile  I  '11  give  you  some  of  the  confirmatory 
evidence." 

He  went  with  me;  and  to  him  and  O'Hara,  at  the 
same  time,  I  related  the  dumf ounding  occurrences  of 
the  previous  night. 

"And  what  did  this  McNish  say?"  the  doctor  in- 
quired, when  I  had  finished.  "Did  he  admit  the 
masquerade?" 

"He  became  delirious.  There  was  no  getting  a 
sensible  word  from  him.  My  own  idea  is  that  the 
delirium  was  feigned." 

"Possibly." 

[319] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"Is  n't  it  equally  possible,  Doctor,"  I  asked,  "that 
he  has  been  feigning  since  the  first?" 

"No,"  was  his  answer.  "I  don't  think  so.  He  may 
have  exaggerated  his  symptoms,  when  conscious,  to 
gain  time ;  but  if  he  had  been  able  to  think  clearly  he 
would  have  secured  that  letter  before  last  night. 
You  may  rest  assured  that  that  was  the  first  oppor- 
tunity he  had,  after  regaining  the  power  of  thought 
continuity.  And  still,"  he  continued,  "I  am  not  en- 
tirely convinced  that  he  is  not  Robert  Cameron.  If 
it  is  merely  a  resemblance,  as  you  claim,  then  it  is  the 
most  remarkable  case  of  likeness  that  I  have  ever  en- 
countered. Moreover,  there  is  one  thing  we  must  not 
lose  sight  of.  His  abductors,  as  has  been  demon- 
strated by  everything  they  have  done,  are  an  unusu- 
ally clever  and  cunning  lot  of  men.  To  counterfeit 
age,  so  far  as  the  tattoo  mark  is  concerned,  is  not  so 
difficult  as  you  might  imagine;  and  I  should  have  to 
see  the  scar  before  admitting  that  it  is  not  of  recent 
origin.  The  letter  might  have  been  a  forgery,  or  a 
real  letter,  secured  and  placed  in  Cameron's  pocket 
for  this  very  purpose.  And  hypnotic  suggestion 
would  easily  explain  his  desire  to  secure  and  destroy  it. 
The  use  of  a  foreign  tongue  in  his  dementia  even, 
could  be  accounted  for  in  the  same  way." 

It  was  natural  that  Dr.  Massey  should  exert  his 

[320] 


ANOTHER    PROBLEM 

ingenuity  to  reconcile  these  divergent  points.  To  him 
it  seemed,  as  it  had  to  me,  that  a  mistake  as  to  the 
identity  of  his  patient  was  incredible.  But  now  I 
simply  shook  my  head  in  negation. 

"Wait  until  you  see  him  again,  Doctor,"  I  re- 
quested. "Wait  until  you  read  his  face,  not  for  what 
is  on  the  surface  but  for  what  is  behind  it." 

The  motor,  drawing  a  swift  diagonal  to  the  curb, 
came  creepingly  to  a  halt  before  the  Cameron  house. 
As  I  was  about  to  alight,  Dr.  Massey  laid  a  detain- 
ing hand  on  my  arm. 

"If  your  conclusion  is  correct,  Clyde,"  he  said, 
gravely,  "what  course  do  you  propose  to  take?  Do 
you  realize  what  is  involved?  Don't  you  see  that  your 
conviction  and  mine  is  one  thing,  but  that  to  con- 
vince the  public  is  an  entirely  different  matter?  Can 
we  afford  to  give  this  man  up  for  his  crimes  until  we 
have  Cameron  actually  here  to  prove  that  it  is  not  he 
who  was  thus  involved  sixteen  years  ago?" 

In  the  recent  result  of  developments  I  had  not 
thought  of  that.  But  I  saw  now  that  it  presented  a 
problem  no  less  perplexing  than  some  of  those  which 
had  just  been  solved. 


21  [321] 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ENEMIES   FACE  TO   FACE 

A  S  events  shaped  themselves  the  problem  presented 
by  Dr.  Massey  found  a  speedy  solution.  Had 
I  been  compelled  to  grapple  with  it  unaided  I  am  not 
yet  sure  what  course  I  should  have  pursued.  Of  my 
own  volition  I  must  have  hesitated  to  take  a  step 
which  could  not  fail  to  throw  suspicion, —  at  least 
among  the  only  partially  informed  —  upon  my  absent 
and  defenceless  friend.  But  all  choice  in  the  matter 
was  denied  me. 

I  arranged  with  Dr.  Massey  that  he  should  go  un- 
accompanied to  his  patient's  room,  and,  without  so 
much  as  a  hint  that  he  was  cognizant  of  what  had 
transpired  on  the  previous  night,  make  whatever  ex- 
amination he  deemed  necessary  to  a  definite  conclusion. 

In  the  meantime,  having  learned  from  Checkabeedy 
that  Evelyn  was  in  the  breakfast  room,  I  joined  her 
there.  Her  curiosity  had  ripened  by  a  night's  sup- 
pression; and  having  dismissed  the  footman  who  was 
serving  her,  she  at  once  demanded  the  fulfilment  of 
my  promise  to  tell  her  everything. 

[322] 


ENEMIES     FACE     TO     FACE 

"It 's  another  case  where  >  ou  have  the  right  to  say, 
'I  told  you  so!'"  I  began,  as  I  took  a  chair  next 
to  her. 

In  her  wide  blue  eyes  I  read  that  she  divined  my 
meaning. 

"Yes,"  I  went  on,  "the  man  upstairs  is  not  your 
uncle.  We  have  been  nursing  a  viper,  it  seems,  who 
promises  to  give  us  a  deal  of  trouble  before  we  are 
through  with  him." 

There  was  no  need  for  her  to  question  me.  Rap- 
idly, succinctly,  I  told  her  the  story  I  had  learned 
from  Yup  Sing ;  told  her,  too,  of  the  scene  in  the  bed- 
chamber, after  I  had  left  her  on  the  previous  night; 
and  showed  her  the  letter  from  McNish's  poor  old 
Scotch  mother. 

"There,  there,"  I  soothed,  as  in  silence  but  with 
quivering  lips  and  eyes  overflowing,  she  started  to 
read  the  tremblingly  penned  sentences  a  second  time. 
"I  'm  sorry  for  the  dear  old  creature,  too,  but  — " 

"Philip,"  she  interrupted  me,  her  face  and  voice 
alike  pleading.  "Let  us  send  him  back  to  her'" 

"Send  him  back!"  I  repeated  in  amazement. 

"Yes.  We  can,  can't  we?  We  don't  have  to  give 
him  up  to  those  horrid  Chinamen,  do  we  ?  He  's  well 
enough  to  go,  is  n't  he  ?  Why  can't  we  call  a  cab, 
give  him  enough  money  for  his  passage  and  send  him, 

[323] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

at  once?  There's  a  steamer  sailing  this  morning, 
is  n't  there?" 

For  just  a  moment  I  was  on  the  point  of  yielding. 
Seldom  has  a  villain  had  a  more  puissant  advocate 
than  had  McNish  in  this  enthusiastic,  resolute  girl, 
spurred  to  his  salvation  by  the  pathetic  appeal  of  that 
maternal  yearning  which  breathed  from  every  line  of 
the  letter  before  her.  The  unselfish  purity  of  her 
cause  illumined  and  transfigured  her.  Her  beauty 
was  radiant. 

"Answer  me!"  she  insisted,  impatient  at  my  silence. 
"Is  n't  it  possible?  Is  n't  it  really  the  very  best  way 
out  of  a  difficulty?  It  will  never  do  to  admit  that  we 
have  had  that  man  here  in  mistake  for  Uncle  Robert, 
you  know." 

"But  there  is  something  you  have  forgotten,  my 
dear  child,"  I  objected,  with  all  the  mildness  I  could 
bestow  upon  the  words.  "In  your  wish  to  give  joy 
to  this  poor  old  mother  —  and  in  that  I  am  with  you 
heart  and  soul  —  you  have  quite  overlooked  the  fact 
that  we  are  still  with  scarcely  a  scintilla  of  informa- 
tion concerning  the  present  whereabouts  of  your 
uncle." 

"Oh,  no,  I  haven't,"  was  her  prompt  rejoinder, 
"but  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it,  except 
that  it  makes  it  all  the  more  necessary  to  pretend  that 

[324] 


be 

2 

MM 

c 
- 


I 


ENEMIES    FACE    TO    FACE 

we  still  believe  this  McNish  is  he.  How  will  sending 
McNish  abroad  hinder  — "  And  then  she  broke  off, 
suddenly,  as  I  had  rather  expected  she  would,  know- 
ing what  a  keen  brain  she  had  and  how  once  she  got 
a  clear  perspective  on  the  situation,  she  must  see  again 
the  very  point  she  had  suggested  once  herself,  and 
which  I  had  still  in  mind. 

"You  mean,"  she  began  again,  speaking  very  slowly 
now,  as  she  mentally  focussed  the  conditions,  "that  we 
must  hold  McNish  as  a  hostage,  and  only  give  him  up 
when  they  return  Uncle  Robert  to  us?" 

"Exactly,"  I  agreed.  "Just  as  two  armies  do  that 
are  at  war  —  exchange  prisoners." 

"Isn't  there  any  other  way?"  she  asked,  frowning. 
"Oh,  there  must  be.  I  don't  care  a  straw,  you 
know,  for  that  wicked  man;  but,  Philip,  think  of  his 
poor  old  mother!" 

"I  do  think,"  I  told  her.  "I  Ve  been  thinking, 
ever  since  I  read  her  letter,  and  if  it  were  possible, 
Evelyn,  I  'd  give  the  reprobate  his  chance  for  her 
sake,  little  as  he  deserves  it.  But  I  Ve  been  thinking 
of  Cameron,  too.  He  may  be  somewhere  on  the  high 
seas,  as  Miss  Clement's  note  implied,  or  he  may  be  a 
prisoner  in  some  underground  dungeon  of  Chinatown. 
Wherever  he  is,  we  are  safe  in  concluding  he  is  neither 
comfortable  nor  happy.  Why,  then,  should  we 

[325] 


consider,  to  come  right  down  to  practicalities,  this  old 
Scotch  mother  of  an  infamous  son,  when  the  safety 
—  the  life  even  —  of  one  we  both  love  so  dearly  may 
at  this  moment  be  at  stake?" 

I  flattered  myself  there  was  no  getting  away  from 
this  argument.  It  seemed  to  me  conclusive,  but  the 
letter  had  stirred  the  sentimental  depths  of  the  girl's 
nature,  and  she  refused  to  yield  without  one  last  effort. 

"I  know,  Philip.  I  appreciate  every  word  of  what 
you  have  said ;  but  could  n't  we  find  out  what  we  want 
to  know,  through  Miss  Clement?  She  must  have  a 
lot  more  information  than  she  put  in  that  little  hur- 
riedly written  note.  Or,  could  n't  O'Hara  find  out 
for  us?" 

Before  I  could  answer  her,  Checkabeedy  stood  in 
the  doorway. 

"Dr.  Massey  has  just  come  down,  Mr.  Clyde,"  he 
said,  "and  would  you  spare  him  a  moment  in  the  recep- 
tion room?" 

I  turned  to  Evelyn. 

"Shall  we  have  him  in  here?"  I  asked.  And  at  her 
consent,  Checkabeedy,  a  moment  later,  led  the  doctor 
to  us  —  a  very  changed  doctor,  a  very  decidedly 
less  cocksure  doctor  than  I  had  encountered  earlier 
that  morning  in  his  Fifty-sixth  Street  office. 

[826] 


ENEMIES    FACE     TO    FACE 

Even  in  his  bow  to  Evelyn  I  detected  evidence  of 
the  shamefaced  humiliation  he  was  suffering. 

"We  take  off  our  hats  to  your  perspicacity,  Miss 
Gray  son,"  he  said,  confirming  my  reading.  "I  had 
never  thought  such  a  modern  real-life  instance  of 
Lesurques  and  Dubosc  possible." 

"Then  you  admit?"  I  asked,  smiling. 

"Candidly.  There  is  no  question.  Yet  I  could 
have  sworn  yesterday  that  I  was  attending  Mr.  Cam- 
eron. It  is  the  most  remarkable  resemblance  I  have 
ever  seen." 

Evelyn  asked  him  to  be  seated  and  I  drew  out  a 
chair  for  him. 

"And  how  do  you  find  the  patient?"  I  inquired, 
when  he  had  sat  down. 

"Quite  normal  in  every  respect  save  one.  He  is 
in  a  highly  nervous  state.  He  is  endeavoring  to 
maintain  the  fiction  that  he  is  the  gentleman  we  sup- 
posed he  was.  He  evidently  learned  his  lesson  from 
Mr.  Bryan,  before  we  suspected  anything.  It  is 
really  wonderful  how  well  he  does  it,  considering 
that  he  never  saw  the  man  he  is  trying  to  imper- 
sonate." 

"But  he  must  know  that  he  has  been  discovered. 
He  certainly  knows  I  have  this  letter." 

[327] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"A  desperate  man  will  battle  against  the  most  over- 
whelming odds,"  Dr.  Massey  observed,  "and  he  is  a 
desperate  man." 

"You  gave  no  sign  that  you  knew?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Not  the  slightest.  I  pretended  that  I  believed 
him  Mr.  Cameron." 

"But  Mr.  Bryan  must  have  — "  I  began. 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  the  doctor,  "Mr.  Bryan 
knows  him  only  as  the  Mr.  Cameron  he  has  nursed 
from  the  first.  He  would  be  the  last  man  to  indicate 
to  his  patient  a  knowledge  of  anything  untoward." 

"Miss  Grayson  and  I  were  just  discussing  a  course 
of  action  when  you  arrived,  Doctor,"  I  explained, 
"but  had  reached  no  conclusion.  Last  night  I  ar- 
ranged with  Yup  Sing,  who  is  probably  the  most 
prominent  and  best  educated  Chinaman  in  New  York, 
and  his  friend  the  Chinese  Vice  Consul  to  meet  me 
here  to-day  at  noon.  The  chances  are  they  will  bring 
a  United  States  Deputy  Marshal  with  them,  with  a 
warrant  for  McNish's  arrest.  Now  if  we  give  him 
up,  what  will  be  the  result?  He  will  still  maintain 
that  he  is  Cameron  in  spite  of  our  knowledge  to  the 
contrary.  Yup  Sing  and  his  clan  will  insist  that  he 
is  right  and  that  we  are  wrong,  and  our  chances  of 
finding  Cameron  will  dwindle.  It  is  n't  reasonable  to 
expect  that  those  engaged  in  the  abduction  plot  will 

[328] 


ENEMIES    FACE    TO    FACE 

confess  to  their  error  and  inform  us  as  to  Cameron's 
place  of  detention,  is  it?" 

Dr.  Massey  knitted  his  brow  behind  the  bow  of  his 
glasses  and  pursed  his  thin  lips. 

"We  are  certainly  confronted  by  a  very  trying  com- 
plication," he  admitted,  with  characteristic  gravity. 

"Miss  Gray  son  has  suggested  that  we  send  McNish 
abroad  —  at  once,  on  a  steamer  sailing  this  morning." 

"Mr.  Bryan  could  go  with  him,"  Evelyn  volun- 
teered. 

"If  the  United  States  authorities  have  a  warrant 
for  him,"  the  physician  argued,  "that  would  only  de- 
lay matters.  They  would  arrest  him  on  landing." 

There  was  no  question  as  to  the  accuracy  of  this 
deduction. 

"And  the  newspapers,"  I  added,  "would  be  sure  to 
publish  columns  of  speculation.  .  .  .  If  we  could 
only  wring  an  admission  from  McNish  it  would  sim- 
plify matters." 

"Isn't  there  some  one  you  could  confront  him 
with?"  Dr.  Massey  asked,  and  hope  rose  within  me 
at  the  suggestion. 

"As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  from  what  O'Hara 
tells  me,"  was  my  rejoinder,  "the  police  have  in  custody 
now  the  Eurasian  cook  who,  I  believe,  has  been  Mc- 
Nish's  Nemesis  these  sixteen  years.  If  we  could 

[329] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

bring  those  two  miscreants  face  to  face,  McNish  would 
be  sure  to  betray  himself." 

"Then  arrange  it  by  all  means,"  urged  the  doctor. 
"Have  McNish  taken  there,  you  mean?" 
"Or  have  the  Eurasian  brought  here." 
And  so,  ultimately,  through  the  offices  of  O'Hara, 
who  all  this  time  had  been  awaiting  me  in  the  tonneau 
of  my  car  which  still  stood  at  the  door,  John  Soy, 
accompanied  by  two  plain  clothes  men  from  the  De- 
tective Bureau,  was  brought  from  the  Tombs  to  that 
sumptuous  home  on  upper  Fifth  Avenue. 

I  say  "ultimately"  because  his  coming  was  delayed 
beyond  all  patience.  Hour  after  hour  passed.  The 
morning  dragged  by  with  periodic  telephone  excuses 
from  O'Hara.  The  hearing  was  in  progress  before 
the  Police  Magistrate.  .  .  .  Soy  had  been  held 
for  the  Grand  Jury.  .  .  .  The  Magistrate  would 
have  to  sign  a  permit  and  he  could  not  be  approached 
until  he  came  off  the  bench.  .  .  .  Soy  had  gone 
to  the  Tombs.  .  .  .  The  warden  was  at  luncheon 
and  could  not  be  seen  for  half  an  hour. 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Massey,  impelled  by  the  necessities 
of  his  practice,  had  departed,  and  Yup  Sing  and  the 
Vice  Consul,  Chen  Mok,  had  arrived  and  been  rele- 
gated to  the  reception  room.  To  my  relief,  Checka- 
beedy  reported  that  they  were  unaccompanied. 

[330] 


ENEMIES    FACE    TO    FACE 

Meanwhile,  too,  Evelyn  had  received  a  call  from  Miss 
Clement  and  had  learned  with  some  dismay  that  the 
missionary's  ill-fated  informant  had  left  with  her  no 
more  definite  information  regarding  Cameron's  trans- 
portation than  that  which  she  had  already  conveyed 
to  us. 

"We  're  just  starting  in  a  taxicab,"  came  at  length 
from  O'Hara  over  the  wire.  "We  '11  be  there  in  less 
than  half  an  hour." 

And  in  less  than  half  an  hour  they  came,  an  ig- 
noble, vulgar  quartette  against  a  stately,  pompous 
background. 

I  met  them  in  the  great  hall,  standing  before  the 
broad,  sculptured  chimney-piece.  Back  of  me  a  coal 
fire  glowed  in  a  wide  grate  on  massive  brazen  and- 
irons, imparting  a  warmth  almost  genial  to  an  at- 
mosphere spaciously  chill  and  coldly  colorless  with  its 
preponderant  white  marble. 

By  some  chance  Checkabeedy  was  not  present,  and 
the  task  of  admitting  visitors  fell  to  a  liveried  foot- 
man, whose  blue  and  orange  regalia  added  a  final 
sharpening  touch  to  the  grotesque  contrast  of  the  little 
group  with  their  surroundings. 

The  three  detectives  were  more  or  less  of  a  piece  — 
gross,  coarse,  red-faced  men  whose  hands  and  feet 
seemed  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  size,  bulky  as  it 

[331] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

was.  Of  the  three  O'Hara,  possibly  because  of  fa- 
miliarity, struck  me  as  the  least  offensive.  But  after 
all  it  was  not  the  detectives  who  claimed  and  held  my 
chief  interest,  but  the  shrunken,  shadow-like  creature 
they  had  in  charge,  whom  I  recognized  instantly  as 
the  supposed  castaway  the  Sibylla  had  picked  up  that 
warm  October  day  somewhere  east  of  Nantucket — 
the  slinking  figure  I  had  followed  through  the  press 
of  Doyers  Street  almost  to  my  death. 

My  conjecture  was  thus  in  part  verified;  John  Soy 
and  Peter  Johnson  were  the  same,  and  it  only  re- 
mained now  to  prove  that  the  rest  of  my  guess  was  as 
well  founded. 

Stepping  to  the  door  of  the  reception-room,  I  made 
brief  apology  for  my  detention  and  bade  my  two 
Cathay  an  visitors  join  the  others. 

"I  think,  Mr.  Yup,"  I  observed,  "that  we  have  here 
the  Eurasian  cook  of  the  Sable  Lorcha  about  whom 
you  told  me." 

I  suppose  I  was  foolish  enough  to  fancy  that  the 
merchant  would  at  once  make  the  identification  I  de- 
sired. I  should  have  known  better.  In  subtlety 
we  are  no  match  for  the  ancient  race  to  which  Yup 
Sing  belonged,  as  was  evidenced  by  the  absolute  im- 
penetration  of  his  manner,  as,  after  gazing  sharply  at 
John  Soy,  he  turned  to  me  with  a  visage  as  blank 

[332] 


ENEMIES     FACE     TO     FACE 

as  the  marble  wall,  and,  in  a  voice  without  a  shade 
of  inflection,  said : 

"I  do  not  know  him.  I  have  never  seen  him  until 
now." 

Had  a  white  man  dared  to  make  such  denial,  I 
should  have  laughed  in  his  face.  But  the  dignity  of 
the  Oriental,  the  perfect  aplomb  of  his  manner,  in- 
cluding an  utter  absence  of  all  that  could  be  construed 
as  feigning,  forbade  such  rejoinder;  yet  I  knew  that 
he  had  lied. 

"Come,  gentlemen,"  I  said,  denying  myself  even 
the  satisfaction  of  a  shoulder  shrug,  "and  we  shall 
decide  whether  the  man  upstairs  is  the  villain  you 
claim  he  is,  or  — "  but  I  was  in  no  mood  to  finish  the 
sentence. 

The  seven  of  us,  crowding  into  the  elevator,  were 
lifted  to  the  floor  above,  where  I  preceded  the  others 
to  the  door  of  what  we  were  wont  to  call  Cameron's 
bedchamber.  There  I  paused. 

"Pardon  me  just  a  moment,"  I  begged,  with  my 
hand  on  the  knob,  "until  I  see  whether  everything  is 
ready." 

I  had  instructed  Mr.  Bryan  to  have  McNish  up  and 
dressed,  and  I  wished  to  make  sure  that  these  prepara- 
tions were  completed.  But  I  was  hardly  prepared 
for  the  scene  which  greeted  my  entrance. 

[333] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

McNish,  clothed  in  the  suit  he  had  worn  when  I 
found  him,  was  in  the  act  of  closing  a  drawer  of  an 
old-fashioned  rosewood  secretary  which  occupied  a 
place  against  the  right  wall,  beneath  one  of  the  me- 
dallioned  windows.  And  the  nurse  was  nowhere  in 
sight. 

Startled  by  the  sound  of  the  opening  door,  the 
trespasser  half  turned,  his  hands  still  on  the  brass 
drawer-handles;  then,  at  sight  of  me,  he  wheeled 
completely  and  stood  defiant  with  his  back  to  the 
antique  desk. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  I  cried,  indignantly. 
"What  were  you  looking  for?" 

Even  before  he  spoke  I  saw  the  look  of  cunning 
come  into  his  small,  furtive  eyes. 

"I  was  looking  for  some  papers  of  mine,  Clyde," 
he  answered,  boldly,  and  his  voice  was  so  like  Cam- 
eron's that,  for  just  a  moment,  a  shuddering  uncer- 
tainty assailed  me.  Only  the  crafty  leer  weighed  for 
the  truth. 

"Papers  of  yours?"  I  snarled,  ignoring  his  familiar 
use  of  my  name.  "I  have  the  only  paper  you  brought 
into  this  house,  Donald  McNish,  and  that 's  evidence 
enough  to  put  you  where  you  belong.  Where  's  Mr. 
Bryan?" 

But  at  that  moment  the  nurse,  appearing  from  the 

[334] 


adjoining  room,  answered  for  himself,  and  McNish, 
with  a  capitally  assumed  nonchalance,  said,  smilingly, 

"I  didn't  think  you  could  be  so  easily  imposed 
upon,  Clyde.  The  letter  to  Donald  McNish  was 
given  to  me  by  McNish  himself.  He  wanted  me  to 
answer  it.  It  was  his  last  request.  He  — " 

"Silence!"  I  cried;  and  then,  "Mr.  Bryan,  get 
him  into  that  chair  before  the  bureau,  facing  the  door. 
These  people  outside  must  not  be  kept  waiting  any 
longer."  With  which  I  turned,  and  with  hand  on 
knob  once  more,  paused  until  the  nurse  had  rather 
roughly,  but  in  all  haste,  dragged  his  charge  across 
the  floor  and  fairly  flung  him  into  the  indicated  seat. 

It  was  not  until  after  the  immediately  succeeding 
occurrences  that  I  learned  from  O'Hara  what  had 
been  told  to  John  Soy  on  his  way  up  town  in  the  taxi- 
cab.  As  I  understand  it,  the  other  detectives  had 
informed  him  that  he  was  being  taken  to  this  house 
so  that  his  chief  accuser,  who  was  nigh  unto  death, 
could  make  an  ante-mortem  identification.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  of  course,  the  situation  was  practi- 
cally the  reverse:  We  desired  Soy  to  identify  Mc- 
Nish, and  McNish,  under  stress  of  the  encounter,  to 
admit  his  own  identity.  The  Eurasian,  however, 
having  been  thus  misinformed,  was  at  a  distinct  dis- 
advantage. So,  when  I  drew  back  the  door,  and  he 

[335] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

was  pushed  forward  into  the  room,  instead  of  seeking, 
he  imagined  himself  sought,  and  with  bowed  head  and 
eyes  on  the  floor,  stood  shrinkingly  ill  at  ease. 

To  this  misunderstanding  is  probably  attributable 
all  that  followed.  Had  Soy  known  that  McNish  was 
regarded,  equally  with  himself,  as  an  aggressor,  he 
might  have  controlled  his  outbreak  and  permitted  the 
law  to  wreak  its  tardy  justice.  But  Soy  did  not 
know,  and  the  tide  of  events  met  sudden  change. 

It  is,  indeed,  scarcely  conceivable,  how  rapidly  it 
was  all  enacted.  For  just  a  moment  the  weazened 
figure  stood  still,  while  behind  him  crowded  the  rest 
of  us  —  the  three  detectives,  the  two  Chinamen  and 
myself. 

I  saw  McNish  struggle  for  an  instant  to  maintain 
his  pose  of  indifference,  and  then  I  saw  his  cheeks 
blanch,  and  his  little  eyes  widen  in  craven  terror  as 
he  recognized  the  shabby,  silent  thing  before  him. 
His  lips  parted,  his  bared  teeth  clicked  together,  and 
his  hands,  like  talons,  clutched  tensely  his  chair  arms. 

In  that  strained  moment  the  room  was  strangely 
hushed.  I  know  I  scarcely  breathed,  as  nervously 
intent  I  watched  those  two  miserable  creatures;  the 
one  keenly  conscious,  the  other  blind  to  everything 
save  the  rug  pattern  at  his  feet. 

Then,  like  a  flash,  Soy  stole  a  glance  at  his  supposed 

[336] 


ENEMIES     FACE     TO    FACE 

accuser,  and  I  saw  him  quiver  into  steel.  It  was  as 
though  an  electric  bolt  had  shot  through  his  shrink- 
ing frame  and  limp  limbs.  He  seemed  to  grow  out 
of  himself,  to  rise  inches  taller,  towering  with  stiff- 
ened neck  and  lifted  head. 

To  describe  with  any  degree  of  accuracy  what  en- 
sued, I  cannot.  I  know  only  that  McNish  rose  cum- 
brously  to  his  feet,  only  to  fall  back  again  beneath  the 
pouncing  spring  of  the  Eurasian.  Then  followed  a 
pistol  shot,  muffled,  yet  sounding  lethally  loud  against 
the  grim  silence  of  the  chamber;  and,  as  with  one 
accord  we  leaped  forward,  I  saw  Soy  roll  over  in  a 
spasm  of  contortions,  and  McNish,  thus  freed  from 
his  gripping  hold,  raise  an  arm  and  fire  again,  with 
the  pistol  pressed  to  his  own  temple,  just  as  Bryan, 
who  had  been  nearest  to  them,  bravely  made  a  grab 
for  the  weapon. 


22 


[887] 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

HIS   SISTER   CONFESSOR 

death  of  McNish  was  instantaneous.  Soy, 
with  a  bullet  in  his  abdomen,  lingered  for  three 
days.  During  that  time  Miss  Clement  became  his 
sister  confessor,  and  so  there  drifted  into  our  posses- 
sion a  host  of  facts  which  otherwise  we  might  never 
have  learned.  Strange,  uncanny  creature  that  he  was, 
he  seemed  to  repose  the  utmost  confidence  in  the  gray, 
sweet-faced  missionary,  and  fairly  unburdened  his 
sin-charged  soul  to  her.  Those  of  his  fellow  con- 
spirators that  she  promised  to  protect,  she  protected. 
Those  that  he  believed  to  have  played  him  false,  she 
protected  likewise.  Her  religion  was  one  in  which 
personal  justice  has  no  dwelling.  "Vengeance  is 
mine,  I  will  repay,"  her  Lord  had  admonished,  and 
to  Him  she  was  content  to  resign  the  problem  of 
retribution. 

Had  I  been  more  familiar  with  the  Cameron  town 
house  and  the  town  habits  of  its  master,  Justice  prob- 
ably would  not  have  been  tricked  out  of  having  her 
way  with  two  as  lawless  wretches  as  ever  infested  a 

[338] 


HIS     SISTER    CONFESSOR 

community.  I  should  have  known  then  that  one  of 
the  drawers  of  that  quaint  old  rosewood  secretary  was 
the  hiding  place  of  a  38-calibre  Colt,  and  in  all  likeli- 
hood have  had  it  removed  before  McNish  was  capable 
of  searching  for  it.  As  it  was,  Mr.  Bryan  took  no 
little  blame  upon  himself  for  not  having  been  the 
first  to  discover  it,  though  to  my  mind  he  could  hardly 
be  regarded  as  recreant  in  failing  to  investigate  a 
piece  of  furniture  of  so  intimate  a  character. 

The  notoriety  consequent  upon  the  murder  and 
suicide  was  hideously  inordinate.  Inspired  and  stimu- 
lated by  the  sensational  press,  which  did  not  hesitate 
to  imply  what  it  dared  not  state  openly,  the  currency 
of  falsehood  and  misconception  at  one  period  came 
close  to  being  disastrous.  As  I  had  foreseen,  the  re- 
semblance of  McNish  to  Cameron,  coupled  with  the 
seemingly  convincing  fact  that  the  tragedy  had  oc- 
curred in  the  Cameron  town  house,  where  the  million- 
aire was  supposed  to  be  convalescent,  gave  excuse  for 
persistent  iteration  of  a  rumor  that,  in  order  to  pre- 
serve the  fame  of  a  man  regarded  always  as  above 
reproach  and  at  the  same  time  to  protect  the  line  of 
securities  in  which  he  had  been  interested,  the  story  of 
a  confusing  likeness  had  been  invented. 

No  paper  in  the  land  would  have  had  the  temerity 
to  print  this  as  a  fact,  but  again  and  again  —  silly 

[S39] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

and  impossible  as  it  must  have  appeared  to  all  think- 
ing persons  —  it  was  promulgated  by  innuendo  and 
embodied  in  more  or  less  weakly- worded  denials. 

As  a  result  Crystal  Consolidated  suffered.  Bonds 
and  stocks  alike  sloughed  fraction  after  fraction  and 
point  after  point.  And  our  mouths  were  necessarily 
closed  upon  the  truth,  since  that,  if  possible,  would 
have  been  even  more  damaging;  for  while  we  still 
hoped,  we  could  give  no  positive  assurance  that  Cam- 
eron was  yet  alive. 

Strangely  enough,  though  the  whole  wretched  com- 
plication had  been  raked  reportorially  with  a  fine- 
tooth  comb,  the  kidnapping  from  the  yacht  had  not 
yet  been  so  much  as  hinted  at,  but  I  lived,  daily,  in 
mortal  dread  that  it  would  be  brought  to  light  at  the 
next  journalistic  hand-sweep.  Accurate  information 
as  to  Cameron's  present  whereabouts  was  the  news 
now  most  eagerly  sought  not  alone  by  the  press  but 
by  Wall  Street  as  well;  our  failure  to  supply  it, 
—  though  excused  by  us  on  the  ground  that  in  his 
present  nervous  condition,  it  was  imperatively  neces- 
sary to  keep  him  sequestered  from  interviewers  — 
was  not  unnaturally  arousing  a  suspicion  that  we  did 
not  possess  it  to  supply. 

If,  under  the  strain  of  the  tragedy  and  the  brutal 
publicity  which  followed  upon  it,  Evelyn  Grayson 

[840] 


HIS     SISTER    CONFESSOR 

had  not  eventually  succumbed  she  must  have  been 
more  than  human.  Bravely  she  had  borne  up  against 
a  whelming  succession  of  nerve-wrenching  experi- 
ences, refusing  to  entertain  fear  and  fighting  val- 
iantly against  discouragement,  but  heart  and  nerves 
have  their  limit  of  endurance;  and  when,  on  the  third 
day,  John  Soy  was  gathered  to  his  yellow  and  white 
fathers,  and  a  more  yellow  than  white  evening  journal 
ventured,  more  boldly  than  had  been  dared  hitherto, 
to  make  the  implication  to  which  I  have  referred, 
Evelyn  collapsed  utterly. 

As  chance  would  have  it,  I  myself  came  upon  her, 
lying  white,  limp,  and  unconscious  on  the  library  floor, 
with  the  paper  still  loosely  held  in  her  right  hand. 
The  sound  of  her  fall  had  carried  to  me  faintly  as  I 
neared  the  closed  door,  and  a  misgiving  born  of  intui- 
tion rather  than  of  any  more  definite  cause  had  has- 
tened my  steps. 

Having  lifted  her  to  a  couch  and  rung  for  her  maid 
I  at  once  set  about  doing  what  I  could  to  restore  her 
to  consciousness.  But  her  plight  was  no  ordinary 
momentary  faintness.  Stubbornly  she  refused  to  re- 
spond to  my  efforts,  and  those  of  the  maid  when, 
after  hours  it  seemed,  she  came,  were  equally  un- 
availing. 

Alarmed,  I  called  up  Dr.  Massey,  only  to  learn 

[341] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

that  he  had  gone  to  Boston  for  a  consultation,  and 
that  Dr.  Thorne,  his  assistant,  was  operating  at 
Roosevelt  Hospital.  For  a  moment,  distressed  and 
anxious,  the  names  of  other  physicians  eluded  me. 
In  despair,  I  opened  the  Telephone  Directory,  in  hope 
of  a  suggestion,  and  the  name  of  Addison  leaped  at 
me  from  the  page.  To  my  infinite  relief  he  was  in 
his  office ;  his  electric  was  at  the  door,  and  he  would 
be  over  at  once. 

And  it  was  not  until  ten  minutes  later,  when  he 
came  hurriedly  into  the  room,  that  I  remembered. 
The  name,  when  I  saw  it,  had  at  once  struck  me  as 
familiar.  I  seemed  to  know,  even,  that  it  belonged 
to  a  physician  of  reputed  high  standing,  yet  it  was 
only  at  the  instant  of  his  entrance,  when  his  pene- 
trating steel-gray  eyes  drilled  into  mine,  that  I  asso- 
ciated it  with  the  man  to  whom  I  had  gone,  not  for 
any  ailment,  but  to  learn  whether  my  friend,  in  spite 
of  his  denials,  had  ever  been  in  China. 

If  the  recognition  was  mutual,  Dr.  Addison  gave 
no  sign  of  it.  His  patient  demanded  and  received  his 
immediate  attention.  Hastily  he  administered  a  stim- 
ulating hypodermic,  and  then,  himself  assisted  in 
carrying  her  to  her  room. 

When  he  rejoined  me  in  the  library,  half  an  hour 
later,  it  was  with  the  glad  news  that  she  had  responded 

[342] 


HIS     SISTER    CONFESSOR 

gratifyingly  to  treatment,  and  was  sleeping  calmly. 
After  thanking  him  for  his  promptness  and  efficiency, 
I  said, 

"You  do  not  remember  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  he  returned,  almost  brusquely,  fix- 
ing me  with  his  gaze.  "You  are  Mr.  Clyde.  Did 
you  get  any  relief  from  the  prescription  I  gave 
you?" 

I  had  not  expected  the  question  and  was  unpre- 
pared for  it.  In  venturing  an  evasive  reply  I  stam- 
mered. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  even  had  it  filled,"  he  declared, 
with  a  grim  smile  that  was  at  least  partially  reassur- 
ing. And  I  admitted  that  his  surmise  was  accurate. 
Moreover  I  begged  him  to  sit  down. 

"I  have  a  confession  to  make,  Doctor,"  I  said,  a 
little  shamefacedly. 

"It  is  unnecessary,  Mr.  Clyde,"  was  his  half-polite 
rejoinder,  as  he  sank  into  a  chair  before  the  fireplace. 
"I  read  the  newspapers,  and  I  have  come  to  under- 
stand many  things  in  the  past  few  days." 

As  I  took  a  seat  opposite  to  him,  I  said, 

"The  newspapers  have  been  misleading,  I  fear,  Dr. 
Addison." 

"No,"  he  contradicted,  his  tone  softened.  "On  the 
contrary  they  have  opened  my  eyes  to  a  truth  that 

[343] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

was  long  hidden;  they  have  made  a  very  contrite 
and,  I  must  confess,  a  very  unhappy  man  of  me." 

"Unhappy?" 

"More  unhappy  than  you  can  conceive,  Mr.  Clyde. 
For  years  I  have  misjudged  one  of  the  best  friends 
Heaven  ever  privileged  a  man  to  have." 

"But,  my  dear  Doctor,"  I  began,  "you  were  not  at 
fault,  altogether ;  you  — " 

He  raised  a  deprecatory  hand.  "No,  please  don't," 
he  pleaded.  "You  cannot  temper  it.  I  should  have 
taken  his  word,  without  question.  I  knew  his  love  of 
truth  —  I  probably  more  than  any  one  else.  What 
right  had  I  to  conclude  then,  because  of  certain  ap- 
parently irreconcilable  happenings,  that  his  word  was 
false?" 

"We  are  aU  fallible,"  I  said. 

"All  but  he,"  was  his  prompt  reply.  And  then, 
leaning  forward,  with  a  strained,  eager  look  in  those 
piercing  eyes,  his  voice  vibrant,  he  asked, 

"Is  it  true  that  he  is  very  ill?  That  he  cannot  be 
seen?" 

For  a  scruple  I  hesitated. 

"The  newspapers  have  been  misleading,  I  fear,"  I 
said  again,  and  I  judge  my  expression  of  countenance 
was  as  cryptic  as  my  words,  for  my  visitor's  look 
changed  instantly  to  one  of  dire  perplexity. 

[S44] 


"He  is  not  ill?"  he  questioned.     "You  mean — " 

"Confidentially,  Doctor,"  I  admitted,  "we  have  n't 
the  faintest  notion  just  how  he  is.  He  may  be  in 
excellent  health  or  he  may  have  ceased  to  exist." 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  and  his  face  was  as 
white  as  his  linen. 

"Our  best  information  is  that  he  is  on  a  steamer  — 
a  tramp  —  bound  for  China,  but  we  have  no  particu- 
lars, and  worse  still,  no  verification." 

It  was  neither  fair  nor  consistent  to  conceal  longer 
from  one  so  justly  interested  the  whole  truth,  and 
so,  without  reservation,  I  told  Dr.  Addison  the 
story. 

Before  I  had  quite  concluded,  Miss  Clement  was 
announced,  and  when  she  was  shown  into  the  library, 
instead  of  permitting  the  physician  to  leave,  as  he 
made  offer  of  doing,  I  presented  him  and  insisted 
upon  his  remaining. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  Miss  Clement  about  your  pa- 
tient, Doctor,"  I  said.  "Miss  Clement  is  a  very  good 
friend  of  Miss  Grayson's." 

Graciously  he  complied,  making  it  quite  clear  that 
sedatives  and  sleep  would  undoubtedly  effect  a  prompt 
recovery. 

"And  now  Miss  Clement  will  tell  us  something," 
I  added.  "She  has  had  a  patient,  too,  who  died  this 

[S45] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

morning,  as  you  may  have  seen  by  the  afternoon 
papers  —  the  Eurasian  who  was  shot  by  McNish." 

Up  to  that  moment  I  knew  but  little  of  what  Soy 
had  divulged,  for  the  missionary,  in  her  two  or  three 
brief  telephonic  talks,  had  given  us  scarcely  more  than 
promises  of  important  revelations  when  opportunity 
could  be  made  for  a  meeting ;  and  I  was  impatient  for 
the  fulfilment. 

She  had  chosen  a  seat  at  some  little  distance  from 
us,  but  now,  at  my  solicitation,  she  accepted  a  more 
comfortable  chair,  which  I  placed  in  confidential  jux- 
taposition with  our  own.  Thus  seated,  the  fire  glow 
on  her  face,  the  half-light  of  a  late  Autumn  after- 
noon at  her  back,  her  benignity  of  countenance  merged 
into  a  hitherto  unsuspected  beauty,  and  in  the  keen, 
appraising  eyes  of  the  doctor,  I  detected  a  sudden 
warmth  of  admiration. 

"It 's  rather  a  long  story,"  she  began,  in  her  sweetly 
quiet  voice.  "And  as  it  came  to  me  piecemeal,  I  'm 
afraid  it  will  be  rather  disconnected.  You  see  this 
poor  fellow  suffered  horribly  at  times  and  when  he 
was  not  suffering  he  was  under  the  influence  of  opi- 
ates, so  ordinarily  I  doubt  that  it  would  be  safe  to 
accept  as  fact  a  good  deal  said  under  such  circum- 
stances. It  appears  to  me,  however,  that  in  his  case, 
these  very  conditions  only  strengthen  the  probabili- 

[346] 


HIS     SISTER    CONFESSOR 

ties ;  for  his  mind  seemed  to  hold  only  the  one  theme, 
and  his  statements  could  hardly  have  been  either  spon- 
taneous or  studied  inventions.  On  the  other  hand, 
they  were  rather  a  sort  of  involuntary  recital  of  the 
particulars  of  a  subject  which  had  engrossed  him  for 
years  to  the  exclusion  of  almost  everything  else." 

Dr.  Addison  nodded  his  head,  encouragingly.  "I 
quite  understand,  Miss  Clement,"  he  said.  And  I,  too, 
assured  her  that  her  reasoning  appeared  to  me  logical. 

"It  was  significant,"  she  continued,  "that  so  far 
as  I  could  fix  dates,  he  made  no  references  at  all  to 
any  happening  prior  to  sixteen  years  ago.  The  trag- 
edy of  that  time  was  the  beginning  of  what  I  think  I 
may  call  his  mania.  Everything  he  told  me  had  to  do 
with  it.  It  came  at  the  beginning,  at  the  apex,  and  at 
the  end  of  every  revelation." 

"The  tragedy  of  sixteen  years  ago?"  inquired  the 
physician. 

"The  tragedy  of  what  has  been  called  The  Sable 
Lorcha,'  "  I  reminded  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course." 

"You  know  of  that,  then?"  asked  Miss  Clement. 
And  briefly  I  ran  over  what  Yup  Sing  had  told  me. 

"John  Soy,  I  understand,  was  the  cook  whom  Mc- 
Nish  imprisoned  in  the  galley,"  I  added. 

"It  seems  he  broke  his  way  out  just  as  the  lorcha 

[347] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

was  sinking.  McNish  had  waited  until  he  had  gone 
to  his  bunk  for  his  usual  hop,  and  had  chosen  the  hour 
he  was  sleeping  to  get  away  and  scuttle  the  vessel. 
For  five  days  Soy  floated  about  on  a  bit  of  wreckage 
without  food  or  drink,  and  was  finally  picked  up  by 
a  proa  and  taken  back  to  Macao  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Canton  River,  where,  after  weeks  of  delirium,  he  told 
his  story  of  the  lorchas  fate.  From  that  day  the 
search  for  McNish  began.  It  seems  that  he  had  a 
partner,  an  Irishman,  named  Moran,  who  for  a  time 
was  suspected  of  having  been  in  the  conspiracy;  for, 
you  must  remember,  it  was  thought  then  that  the 
sinking  of  the  lorcha  had  been  planned  from  the  first, 
the  idea  being  that  it  was  simply  a  scheme  to  get  the 
passage  money  from  the  poor  coolies,  and  then  drown 
them." 

"Horrible!"  ejaculated  the  physician. 

"But  the  Chinese  are  just,"  the  missionary  con- 
tinued. "They  discovered  that  a  certain  United 
States  cruiser  that  had  been  warned  of  the  attempted 
smuggling,  did,  on  that  particular  day,  give  chase  to 
a  lorcha,  which  eventually  disappeared  in  the  fog. 
So  the  enmity  against  Moran  subsided,  and,  ulti- 
mately, this  same  Moran  became  the  most  openly 
bitter  of  all  the  avenging  horde  that  for  over  a  decade 
and  a  half  scoured  the  four  corners  of  the  globe;  for 

[348] 


HIS     SISTER    CONFESSOR 

it  seems  that  McNish  had  not  only  made  off  with  his 
share  of  the  receipts  of  their  joint  enterprise,  but  had 
left  him  with  a  ruining  lot  of  debts  to  settle  as  well. 
There  was  something,  too,  I  believe,  about  a  Chinese 
woman  whose  loyalty  to  Moran,  McNish  undermined, 
but  I  confess  that  part  of  the  story  was  not  very  clear 
to  me.  At  all  events  Soy,  the  half-breed,  and  Moran, 
the  Irishman,  who  appears  to  have  been  a  roving 
blade,  a  sort  of  soldier  of  fortune  with  some  talent 
for  painting,  became  the  prime  movers  in  this  relent- 
less quest,  in  which  they  were  backed  by  what  is  known 
as  the  Six  Companies.  All  the  tongs,  no  matter  how 
much  at  variance  on  other  points,  were  a  unit  in  this 
instance,  and  unlimited  money  was  always  available 
to  prosecute  the  search." 

A  footman,  appearing  at  this  juncture  with  the 
inevitable  tea  paraphernalia,  interrupted  temporarily 
the  current  of  Miss  Clement's  narrative.  But  our 
interest  was  such  that  we  limited  the  cessation  to  the 
briefest  possible  period.  Dr.  Addison,  whose  profes- 
sional engagements  were  being  toppled  over  one  after 
another,  politely  urged  her  to  continue,  directly  her 
cup  was  in  her  hand. 

"Think,  Miss  Clement,"  he  said,  with  an  ingrati- 
ating smile,  "of  the  rapt  audience  you  have!  I  trust 
it  is  at  once  an  inspiration  and  a  compensation." 

[349] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"It  surely  is,"  was  the  good  lady's  prompt  acknowl- 
edgment. "And,  by  the  way,  I  must  not  forget  to 
tell  you  how  this  man,  McNish,  actually  had  the 
temerity  to  return  to  China  a  few  years  ago.  He 
appeared  to  think  either  that  his  crime  had  been  for- 
gotten or  that  knowledge  of  it  was  limited  to  the 
Southern  provinces,  for  in  the  early  fall  of  1903, 
under  one  of  his  many  aliases,  he  arrived  at  Peking, 
by  way  of  the  Trans-Siberian  Railway." 

The  doctor  and  I  exchanged  glances.  It  was 
odd  how  confirmation  of  the  error  he  had  already 
avowed  should  thus  come  about  from  the  lips  of  one 
who  knew  nothing  of  his  story  of  a  shattered  friend- 
ship. 

"Oddly  enough,  Moran  happened  to  be  in  the  city  at 
the  time  and  every  arrangement  was  made  to  capture 
the  long-sought  prey  and  convey  him  to  Canton  for 
some  exquisite  torture  devised  especially  to  fit  his 
crime.  In  some  way,  however,  the  intended  victim 
got  wind  of  what  was  proposed,  and  came  within  an 
ace  of  escaping  unscathed  from  under  their  very 
fingers.  Indeed,  he  did  escape  in  the  end,  but  not 
before  Moran  had  very  nearly  put  a  finish  to  him  by  a 
knife  thrust  in  his  back." 

Once  more  I  exchanged  glances  with  the  physician, 
for  scarcely  half  an  hour  before,  I  had  told  him  of 

[350] 


HIS     SISTER    CONFESSOR 

the  scar  under  McNish's  left  shoulder  blade,  received 
as  I  had  been  told,  in  Buffalo. 

"Moran  fled  from  Peking  after  this  encounter,  not 
knowing  whether  his  enemy  were  dead  or  alive,  and 
for  awhile,  I  believe,  laid  very  low,'  as  they  say.  In 
spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  the  combined  Chinese  organi- 
zations, McNish,  warned  now  of  his  constant  danger, 
eluded  their  search,  but  at  length  Soy  himself  suc- 
ceeded in  tracing  him  to  Canada  and  thence  to  Buffalo. 
There  Moran  came,  post-haste,  and  once  more  there 
was  a  street  encounter.  Moran  was  arrested,  and 
McNish  charged  him  with  assault  with  intent  to  kill. 
The  result  was  that  Moran  was  convicted  and  sent 
to  prison  for  a  term  of  years ;  and  once  again  the  earth 
seemed  to  close  over  McNish." 

The  discrepancies  between  Miss  Clement's  narra- 
tive and  that  of  Yup  Sing  I  did  not  regard  as  suffi- 
ciently vital  to  raise  a  question  over,  yet  I  must  admit 
that  I  could  hardly  foresee  a  conclusion  without  a 
much  graver  antagonism  of  facts  as  I  knew  them. 

The  missionary  having  paused  to  sip  her  tea,  Dr. 
Addison  asked  permission  to  smoke  a  cigarette,  which 
she  readily  granted. 

"It  assists  concentration,"  was  his  excuse,  "and  I 
am  so  deeply  interested,  that  I  wish  to  coordinate  per- 
fectly the  facts  you  give  us." 

[351] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

I  think  I  smiled  at  this  reminder  of  my  visit  to 
the  doctor's  office.  An  invented  inability  to  coordi- 
nate, I  remembered,  had  been  my  entering  wedge  to 
his  serious  attention. 

"On  Moran's  release  from  prison,"  Miss  Clement 
continued,  fortified  by  the  fragrant  Oolong,  "he  ap- 
pears for  the  first  time  to  have  considered  the  ad- 
visability of  adopting  some  sort  of  an  incognito. 
Prior  to  this  time  he  had,  Soy  told  me,  been  carefully 
clean  shaven  and  close-cropped.  Now  he  grew  a 
beard  and  wore  his  hair  long,  and,  in  addition,  he 
doctored  it  with  henna  until  it  became  a  fiery  red. 
He  also  changed  his  name  from  Moran  to  Murphy, 
and  instead  of  frequenting  the  busy  marts  of  men, 
he  retired  to  an  isolated  country  place  on  the  Cos  Cob 
River  and  posed  as  an  artist.  He  employed  always 
a  Chinese  servant,  and  at  least  once  a  week,  without 
fail  he  visited  Chinatown,  keeping  always  in  touch 
with  the  powers  there,  which  were  still  unrelenting  in 
their  efforts  to  trace  McNish." 

She  came  now  to  Murphy's  so-called  chance  meet- 
ing with  Cameron  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  of  which 
Cameron  himself  had  already  told  me.  I  would 
have  saved  her  this  recital,  but  it  was  new  to  Dr.  Ad- 
dison  and  so  I  allowed  her  to  proceed. 

"It  was  plainly  evident  to  Moran,"  she  pursued, 

[352] 


HIS     SISTER    CONFESSOR 

"that  McNish  —  or  at  least  the  gentleman  he  sup- 
posed was  McNish  —  did  not  recognize  him,  and  his 
delight  at  this  discovery  was  unbounded;  for  it  gave 
him  opportunity,  quite  unsuspected,  to  arrange  all  his 
plans  for  a  most  ingenious  campaign  of  torture. 
What  that  campaign  consisted  of,  of  course,  you  al- 
ready know,  Mr.  Clyde,  and  I  presume  Dr.  Addison 
does,  too." 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "I  have  told  the  doctor." 

"What  you  don't  know,  though,"  she  added,  "is  how 
it  was  managed." 

"We  have  been  told  something  about  amyl  pearls," 
I  suggested. 

"Amyl  pearls?"  queried  Dr.  Addison,  curiously. 

With  as  much  clearness  as  possible  I  explained  to 
him  what  I  meant  by  using  this  admittedly  inaccurate 
term. 

"Incredible!"  he  exclaimed.  "Can  it  be  possible 
that  there  is  such  an  anaesthetic  as  this,  and  we  have 
never  even  heard  of  it  before?" 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  about  its  existence,"  I  an- 
swered. "I  myself  have  experienced  its  effects, 
though  I  have  never  actually  seen  it  put  in  operation." 

But  it  was  Miss  Clement  who  was  most  convincing. 

"I  have  never  ceen  either  it  or  its  effects,  Doc- 
tor," she  said,  "but  I  am  willing  to  believe  even  more 

23  [853] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

marvellous  things  than  that  where  the  Chinese  are  con- 
cerned. You  must  remember  that  as  a  race  they  are 
most  jealous  of  their  knowledge  as  well  as  their  pos- 
sessions. Just  now,  after  all  their  many  centuries  of 
a  civilization  greater  in  some  respects  than  our  own, 
we  are  beginning  to  learn  something  of  them  and  their 
ways,  and  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  to  discover 
that  in  chemistry,  in  medicine  even,  they  have  for- 
gotten more  than  we  know.  Soy  assured  me  that  not 
only  for  days,  but  for  weeks,  he  himself  came  and 
went  about  Mr.  Cameron's  —  or,  as  he  called  it,  Mc- 
Nish's  —  country  place  without  being  either  seen  or 
heard,  simply  by  using  this  ether  of  invisibility.  It 
was  he  who  delivered  the  three  letters.  It  was  he  who 
cut  the  head  from  the  portrait,  and  it  was  he  who 
broke  the  mirror;  and  yet  no  one  saw  him  on  the 
grounds  or  in  the  house,  and  indeed  there  were  very 
few  who  saw  him  in  the  vicinity.  Again  and  again, 
he  assured  me,  he  could  have  taken  his  victim's  life 
but  that  he  was  intent  on  inflicting  a  punishment  more 
protractedly  horrible  than  mere  sudden  death." 

"Who  wrote  the  letters?"  I  asked. 

"Moran." 

"I  thought  so.  And  Moran  killed  the  Chinaman 
who  worked  for  him." 

"No;  there  you  are  wrong,  Mr.  Clyde." 

[354] 


HIS     SISTER    CONFESSOR 

"Then  who  did?" 

"Soy  himself.  He  learned  of  how  that  boy,  un- 
able to  control  his  hatred  of  the  man  who  had  slain 
some  one  or  more  of  his  kinspeople,  carried  back  the 
head  that  had  been  cut  from  the  portrait,  borrowed 
a  rifle  from  Mr.  Cameron's  own  gamekeeper,  and  shot 
the  canvas  full  of  holes.  It  seemed  to  Soy,  then,  that 
in  spite  of  all  his  and  Moran's  careful  preparation  this 
would  surely  involve  trouble,  and  that  once  more  their 
quarry  would  slip  through  their  fingers.  And  to  pre- 
vent the  possibility  of  any  more  unrestrained  fervor 
on  the  boy's  part,  Soy  beat  him  to  death." 

"I  know  Soy,  or  Peter  Johnson  as  he  called  him- 
self, managed  the  kidnapping  from  the  yacht,"  I  said, 
"but  I  shall  never  understand  how  it  was  done.  Did 
he  speak  of  that?" 

"Over  and  over  again.  It  was  he  who  learned  of 
the  intention  to  take  the  cruise.  At  first  they  thought 
they  would  have  to  change  their  plans  and  carry  their 
enemy  off  before  he  had  a  chance  to  take  to  his  yacht. 
But  Soy  maintained  that  that  would  be  too  crude  a 
method;  whereas  to  let  him  think  that  he  had  es- 
caped and  was  safe  away,  and  then,  at  the  very  mo- 
ment of  his  triumph,  to  snatch  him  from  seeming 
security,  would  be  the  very  refinement  of  cruelty  the 
avenger  so  much  desired.  And  so  the  properties  were 

[355] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

secured  at  some  fabulous  figure  —  I  forget  just  what 
they  paid  for  that  fast  power  boat  —  the  scene  was 
set,  and  the  great  act  of  the  drama,  with  Soy  still  the 
star,  was  carried  to  a  successful  climax." 

"But,"  I  made  question,  "I  don't  see  how  Soy  could 
take  such  a  risk.  If  it  had  been  McNish  instead  of 
Cameron,  he  certainly  would  have  recognized  him, 
when  he  was  brought  aboard  from  the  disabled  dory." 

"He  thought  of  that,  but  you  must  remember  that 
in  all  those  sixteen  years  McNish  had  never  once  seen 
Soy.  He  thought  he  had  perished  with  the  rest  when 
the  Sable  Lorcha  went  down.  And  so  Soy  decided 
that  in  oilskins,  apparently  unconscious,  in  an  open 
boat  off  the  New  England  coast,  there  was  not  one 
chance  in  ten  thousand  that  McNish  would  connect  him 
with  the  cook  he  had  left  for  dead  in  the  South  China 
Sea." 

"But  McNish  did  recognize  him  as  soon  as  he  laid 
eyes  on  him  in  this  house.  I  saw  that  myself,  you 
know,  Miss  Clement.  He  recognized  him  and  was 
terror  stricken." 

Miss  Clement  smiled  tolerantly.  She  was  armed  at 
all  points. 

"You  did  not  know,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Clyde,  that  that 
was  not  their  first  meeting,"  she  explained.  "Soy  met 
McNish  on  the  night  you  found  him.  It  was  he  who 

[356] 


HIS     SISTER    CONFESSOR 

assaulted  him,  somewhere  about  Seventh  Avenue  and 
Fiftieth  Street,  and  would  have  killed  him  then, 
had  not  the  police  arrived  at  the  moment.  The 
officers  probably  thought  McNish  was  intoxicated 
and  let  him  go,  seeing  that  he  could  stand,  and  so 
he  staggered  on  to  Fifth  Avenue;  and  there  you  dis- 
covered him." 

"No,  I  did  not  know  that,"  I  admitted,  a  little  crest- 
fallen. "What  followed?" 

"You  remember  I  told  you  that  Chinatown  was  in 
a  state  of  frenzy,  the  next  day?  You  can  understand 
now,  why.  Soy,  of  course,  reported  that  McNish  had 
escaped  from  the  steamer  — " 

I  have  always  believed  that  I  was  much  ruder  at 
this  juncture  than  either  Miss  Clement  or  Dr.  Addi- 
son  would  afterwards  admit.  I  know  I  sprang 
abruptly  to  my  feet;  I  know  I  shouted,  and  I  fear 
my  gestures  were  scarcely  as  restrained  as  the  tenets 
of  good  breeding  demanded. 

"What  steamer?"  I  cried,  suddenly  realizing  that 
the  one  really  vital  piece  of  information  we  should 
have  obtained,  had  all  this  while  been  delayed. 
"What  steamer?  Did  he  give  you  the  name  of  it?" 

But  Miss  Clement,  quite  unaffected  by  the  con- 
tagion of  my  unwonted  excitement,  remained  placid 
and  self-contained  as  ever. 

[357] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"In  just  a  moment,  Mr.  Clyde,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile  that  I  confess  exasperated  me. 

"Pardon  me,"  I  returned,  insistently,  "but  you  do 
not  realize,  I  fear,  what  minutes  even  may  mean  in 
this  matter." 

"No,"  still  very  calmly,  "I  really  don't.  The 
steamer  has  been  at  sea  now  twenty-five  days.  It  is 
bound  for  Hong  Kong.  If  there  was  a  chance  of 
overtaking  it,  I  — " 

"There  's  every  chance  of  overtaking  it,"  I  inter- 
rupted once  again.  "To-morrow,  or  next  day,  or  even 
to-day,  it  may  put  into  Rio.  We  must  telegraph  the 
United  States  Consulate  at  every  possible  port." 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  apparently,  Miss  Cle- 
ment seemed  to  appreciate  there  was  a  real  urgency. 

"The  steamer  is  the  Glamorganshire"  she  said, 
quickly:  "A  freighter;  a  tramp,  I  suppose;  bound 
for  Hong  Kong.  She  sailed  on  Wednesday,  the 
twenty-eighth  of  last  month,  and  Mr.  Cameron  was 
put  aboard,  half -drugged,  as  one  of  the  crew." 


[358] 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  TORTOISE  AND   THE   HARE 

A  LTHOUGH  Miss  Clement's  interesting  chapter 
of  disclosures  was  by  no  means  ended  with  the 
name  of  the  steamer  and  its  date  of  sailing,  it  there 
came,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  at  least,  to  an  abrupt 
intermission.  For,  as  though  the  delay  and  inaction 
of  the  past  month  but  served  to  swell  the  flood  of  my 
eager  energy,  the  tide,  so  long  checked  but  now  set 
free,  careering  like  an  unleashed  spring  freshet,  over- 
rode all  barriers.  With  scant  apology,  I  sprang  to 
the  telephone,  and  if  Miss  Clement  continued  her  con- 
versation with  Dr.  Addison,  I  was  deaf  to  what  she 
said. 

What  I  sought,  first  of  all,  was  corroboration.  Did 
a  steamship,  named  the  Glamorganshire,  sail  for 
Hong  Kong  on  October  28th?  In  less  than  five  min- 
utes, the  facts  were  mine.  Such  a  steamer  had  sailed 
for  the  east  on  that  date.  Her  agents  were  Bartlett 
Brothers.  Their  offices  were  in  the  Produce  Ex- 
change Building. 

Another  minute,  and  Bartlett  Brothers  were  on  the 

[359] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

wire.  No,  the  Glamorganshire  did  not  take  the 
South  American  route.  Her  course  was  through  the 
Mediterranean  and  the  Suez  Canal.  She  carried  no 
passengers.  She  was  British.  She  was  very  slow. 
She  had  called  at  the  Azores  and  then  at  Gibraltar, 
where  she  had  been  delayed  in  coaling.  Yes,  she 
would  make  several  Mediterranean  ports.  If  all 
went  well,  she  would  reach  Port  Said  about  Decem- 
ber 6th.  Certainly  not  before  that.  Probably  a  day 
or  so  later. 

I  dare  say  it  was  exceptional  that  I  secured  all  this 
information  with  so  little  trouble,  and  without  giving 
any  hint  as  to  why  I  desired  it,  but  merely  on  the 
statement  that  I  was  Mr.  Clyde,  of  The  Week. 

So  far  as  I  could  judge,  the  Glamorganshire  would 
call  at  Algiers  in  a  few  days;  and  for  a  while  I  con- 
sidered the  advisability  of  communicating  with  the 
United  States  Consul  at  that  port,  through  the  State 
Department  at  Washington.  But  a  knowledge  of 
the  tortuous  involutions  of  official  red  tape  deterred 
me.  After  all,  I  believed  that  if  Cameron  was  to 
be  rescued  from  the  gruelling  slavery  of  servitude  on 
this  British  freighter,  the  work  must  not  be  intrusted 
to  the  personally  disinterested. 

Thereupon  I  consulted  calendars,  steamer  sched- 
ules, and  Continental  time-tables.  By  the  fast  trans- 

[860] 


TORTOISE     AND     HARE 

atlantic  liner  sailing  on  the  morrow,  I  could  make 
Paris  in  six  days.  Forty-eight  hours  later  I  could  be 
in  Brindisi.  If  good  fortune  followed,  less  than  four 
days  more  would  land  me  at  Port  Said.  It  was  now 
Monday,  November  23.  Twelve  days  hence  would 
be  December  5th,  and  the  Glamorganshire,  her  agents 
had  told  me,  could  not  possibly  reach  there  before  De- 
cember 6th.  The  margin  was  not  wide,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  sufficient,  and  the  thought  of  further  inaction, 
now  that  the  trail  lay  bare,  was  nothing  less  than  un- 
endurable torment. 

Wisdom,  I  suppose,  would  have  dictated  the  ad- 
visability of  securing  some  badge  of  authority  from 
my  own  government  before  setting  forth  on  a  mis- 
sion involving  so  delicate  a  point  of  international  mari- 
time law  as  that  which  vras  here  embraced;  but  the 
saving  of  time  was  with  me,  just  then,  the  paramount 
consideration.  The  loss  of  a  day  meant  the  possible 
missing  not  only  of  connections,  but  of  the  main  ob- 
ject of  my  journey;  and  so,  armed  with  nothing  more 
potent  than  good  health,  strong  determination,  and  a 
well-filled  purse  I  boarded  the  Kronprinz  Wilhelm 
and  started  on  my  diagonal  race  to  head  off  a  quarry 
which  already  had  twenty-five  days'  start  of  me. 

Speed  being  all-important,  my  wish  was  to  travel 
alone  and  unencumbered,  but  at  the  last  moment  I 

[361] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

was  persuaded  to  consent  to  the  company  of  both 
Evelyn  Grayson  and  Dr.  Addison.  Realizing  the 
brave,  unfaltering  assistance  which  the  young  woman 
had  afforded  me  from  the  first,  I  could  hardly  refuse 
to  gratify  her  wish  to  be  present  at  what  we  both  hoped 
would  be  the  victorious  end.  Moreover,  the  thought 
of  absence  from  her  for  a  month  at  least,  and  prob- 
ably much  longer,  was  far  from  the  most  pleasant  con- 
templation; my  yielding,  therefore,  was  not  altogether 
unselfish. 

Dr.  Addison's  case  was  different.  At  the  last  mo- 
ment he  decided  to  go  abroad  by  the  same  ship ;  and, 
on  the  way  over,  touched  by  his  contrition  and  his  al- 
most pathetic  desire  to  make  amends  to  his  quondam 
friend  at  the  earliest  possible  minute,  I  myself  in- 
vited him  to  go  with  us  the  rest  of  the  way. 

Evelyn  had  proposed  that  Mrs.  Lancaster  should 
also  be  included  in  the  party,  but  this  I  would  not 
hear  to.  If,  for  propriety's  sake,  another  presence 
was  necessary,  her  maid,  and,  ultimately,  Dr.  Addi- 
son, afforded  all  the  security  the  conventions  could  de- 
mand. 

The  fever  of  haste  was  upon  all  of  us  from  the 
start.  The  time  on  shipboard,  in  spite  of  our  common 
subject  of  converse,  dragged  eternally.  Restlessly 
we  paced  the  decks  for  hours  at  a  stretch.  The  post- 

[362] 


TORTOISE     AND     HARE 

ing  of  the  ship's  run  became  the  one  important  event 
of  the  day,  more  interesting  to  us  than  to  the  most 
indefatigable  buyer  in  the  auction  pools.  The  news 
by  wireless  failed  utterly  to  divert  us.  Thanksgiving 
Day  came  and  went  while  we  were  at  sea,  without 
affording  us  more  than  the  briefest  distraction. 

Should  we  reach  Cherbourg  in  time  to  connect  with 
the  P.  &  O.  Express  at  Paris?  That  was  the  one  con- 
stantly recurring  question,  to  be  speculated  upon  with 
varying  degrees  of  hope  and  despair. 

As  good  fortune  would  have  it,  we  made  the  train 
with  fifteen  minutes  to  spare,  and  the  run  to  Brindisi 
was  accomplished  without  accident  or  unseemly  de- 
lay. 

Here,  however,  we  were  compelled  to  wait  six  hours. 
The  steamer  was  late,  owing  to  some  seismic  disturb- 
ance off  the  coast  of  Malta,  and  fear  of  encountering 
new  and  necessarily  uncharted  volcanic  islands,  which 
had  demanded  slow  and  cautious  sailing. 

However  sinister  had  been  the  game  Fate  played 
with  us  in  the  earlier  stages  of  our  quest,  the  favor  of 
its  present  mood  could  not  be  gainsaid.  That  we  were 
now  reasonably  sure  of  reaching  Port  Said  in  advance 
of  the  Glamorganshire  was  in  itself  a  welcome  relief 
from  trying  anxiety;  but  that  was  only  a  small  part 
of  the  banquet  of  good  things  provided  for  us. 

[363] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

I  was  still  exercised  in  a  measure  over  the  steps 
which  must  be  taken  to  secure  Cameron's  release. 
Without  proper  introduction  to  the  authorities,  it  was 
becoming  more  and  more  a  question  in  my  mind 
whether,  after  all,  I  should  be  able  to  accomplish  my 
end  in  the  brief  time  to  which  I  was  restricted. 

With  this  fell  possibility  of  failure  dinging  in  my 
reflections,  I  was  striding  the  white  deck  of  the  P.  and 
O.  steamer,  in  the  early  morning  following  the  night 
of  our  departure  from  Brindisi,  when  a  hand,  dropped 
heavily  on  my  shoulder,  spun  me  round  to  face  a 
laughing,  sun-browned,  young  Englishman  in  white 
flannels. 

For  just  a  moment  I  was  literally,  as  well  as 
figuratively,  taken  aback,  for  the  tone  of  the  ringing 
voice  which  greeted  me  carried  me  five  years  at  least 
into  the  past,  when  Lionel  Hartley  and  I  had  ridden 
to  hounds  together  at  Melton  Mowbray,  while  fellow 
guests  at  a  house-party  in  the  neighborhood. 

"You  bally  Yankee!"  he  was  shouting.  "Fancy 
running  into  you  in  this  fashion!  I  'm  jolly  glad  to 
see  you,  old  chap!" 

Though  my  delight  at  seeing  him  was  at  that  mo- 
ment tempered  by  absorbing  interest  in  my  mission, 
it  rose  a  few  minutes  later  to  unadulterated  ecstasy, 
when  I  discovered  that  he  was  stationed  at  Port  Said, 

[364] 


TORTOISE    AND    HARE 

and  occupied  what  seemed  to  me  just  then  one  of  the 
most  important  posts  in  the  British  Foreign  Service, 
—  secretary  to  the  Governor  General  for  the  Suez 
Canal. 

"You  're  going  to  Cairo,  I  suppose?"  he  hazarded. 

"No,"  I  replied.  "I  'm  going  with  you,  and  I  shall 
not  let  you  out  of  my  sight,  my  friend,  until  you  have 
proved  you  're  something  more  than  a  figurehead 
stuck  up  in  the  Egyptian  sands." 

"If  there  's  any  little  thing  I  can  do, — "  he  began ; 
but  I  interrupted  him. 

"There  's  a  very  big  thing  you  can  do,"  I  corrected. 
And  then  I  told  him. 

"What  a  lark!"  he  cried,  refusing  to  recognize  the 
serious  side  of  it.  "Fancy  one  of  your  American 
multi-millionaires  passing  coal  on  a  British  freighter." 

"Passing  coal!"  I  exclaimed.  "What  rot!  Surely 
they  would  n't  — " 

"Oh,  would  n't  they?"  he  broke  in.  "That 's  just 
what  they  would  do.  He  isn't  an  able-bodied  sea- 
man, is  he?  You  can  safely  wager  he  's  an  experi- 
enced stoker,  or  at  least  a  trimmer  by  this  time." 

"Don't,  Hartley,  don't,"  I  protested.  "It's  too 
cruel  to  think  of." 

"Never  mind,  old  chap,"  was  his  rejoinder. 
"There 's  a  good  time  coming.  We  '11  have  him  out 

[365] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

and  washed  and  dressed  and  sitting  at  table  with  us 
an  hour  after  the  old  tub  lets  her  anchor  drop.  And 
I  '11  wager  you  a  tenner  that  there  won't  be  a  miss 
in  any  part  of  the  programme." 

When,  at  breakfast,  I  told  Evelyn  the  good  news, 
—  omitting,  of  course,  all  reference  to  the  coal-hand- 
ling suggestion  —  she  demanded  that  I  hunt  up 
Hartley,  at  once,  and  present  him.  Discretion,  how- 
ever, seemed  to  me  in  this  instance,  the  better  part  of 
obedience.  I  did  hunt  Hartley  up  and  I  did  present 
him,  but  not  until  I  had  allowed  time  for  the  first 
flush  of  Evelyn's  fervor  to  cool. 

He  was  a  very  good-looking  young  chap;  Evelyn 
was  both  grateful  and  impulsive,  and  I  —  was  in  love. 

Our  landing  at  Port  Said  was  made  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Saturday,  the  fifth  of  December,  and  all  that 
day  and  the  next,  we  waited  in  more  or  less  constant 
expectancy  and  a  boiling  temperature  for  tidings  of 
the  tardy  Glamorganshire. 

Hartley,  meanwhile,  was  a  model  of  hospitality, 
but  Port  Said  is  primarily  a  coaling  station  on  the 
sea-edge  of  the  desert,  and  aside  from  the  concrete 
docks,  the  ships,  the  light  house,  and  the  nearly  naked 
Nubians  that  swarmed  everywhere,  it  proved  utterly 
lacking  in  objects  of  interest. 

Sunday  night  brought  some  small  relief  from  the 

[366] 


TORTOISE     AND     HARE 

intolerable  heat,  and  grateful  for  the  respite,  all  four 
of  our  little  party  were  early  to  bed.  Gradually  we 
had  come  to  believe  that  our  waiting  was  likely  to  be 
prolonged.  The  earthquake  at  Malta  having  delayed 
one  vessel  would  in  all  probability  delay  others  as  well, 
including  that  which  we  had  come  so  far  to  intercept. 
So,  utterly  worn  out  by  nervous  tension  and  the 
fatigue  of  the  tropical  climate,  we  found  rest  grateful, 
and  slept  soundly.  Just  how  soundly  was  demon- 
strated when,  at  an  hour  after  midnight,  three  re- 
sounding knocks  on  my  hotel  chamber  door  only 
roused  me,  dully,  and  left  Evelyn  and  her  maid  and 
Dr.  Addison,  who  occupied  adjacent  rooms,  in  deep 
slumber,  totally  undisturbed. 

With  what  seemed  almost  superhuman  effort,  I 
spurred  myself  to  consciousness  and  struggled  up  on 
elbow. 

"Who's  there?"  I  caUed. 

"Hartley,"  came  the  answer.  "Open  the  door.  I 
thought  you  'd  died  of  Port  Said  ennui/1  And  when 
I  had  sleepily  risen  and  admitted  him,  he  went  on 
hurriedly.  "Make  haste,  now,  old  chap!  The  bally 
freighter  has  just  come  in,  and  I  don't  propose  to 
lose  that  tenner  through  dilatory  methods  on  your 
part." 

But  I  needed  no  urging.  Wide  awake  at  his  first 

[367] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

sentence,  I  was  already  flinging  on  my  clothes.  He 
still  chattered  on  in  his  chaffing  way,  but  I  scarcely 
heard  him.  Conscious  only  of  the  murmur  of  his 
pleasant,  cheery  English  voice,  my  thoughts  were  out 
in  the  night,  across  the  waters  of  the  harbor,  down  in 
the  inferno  of  a  rusty  ocean  tramp,  where  a  sweating 
stoker  was  giving  battle  to  despair  —  a  sweating 
stoker  who,  in  far-away  America,  owned  a  pleasure 
craft  almost  as  big  as  the  ship  whose  fires  he  had  been 
feeding  for  forty  days  across  two  seas. 

"How  about  the  doctor?"  Hartley  asked,  as  I 
slipped  my  arms  into  my  coat  sleeves  and  snatched  a 
cap  from  a  closet  peg. 

"It 's  too  late  now,"  was  my  answer.  "You 
should  have  reminded  me.  I  forgot  all  about  him." 
And  it  was  true.  I  had  forgotten  everything,  ex- 
cept the  imminence  of  the  rescue  and  the  urgency  of 
haste.  To  one  in  Cameron's  plight  every  fretting 
minute  must  count  a  drop  of  torture. 

The  heavens  were  splendid  with  tropic  stars,  and 
a  faint  breeze  from  the  sea  gently  ruffled  the  spangled 
black  harbor  waters,  as  Hartley's  launch,  guided  by 
a  pilot  of  experience,  headed  for  the  twinkling  lights 
of  the  recently  anchored  freighter. 

Silently  I  sat,  with  gaze  straining,  watching  the 
indicated  sparks  grow  larger  and  brighter,  moment 

[368] 


TORTOISE    AND    HARE 

by  moment,  until  at  length  their  gleams  reflected  in 
the  waves,  and  their  background  emerged  in  a  great 
dark  shadow,  which  silhouetted  itself  against  the  less 
opaque  sky. 

"There  she  is !"  Hartley  cried  in  enthusiasm,  as  her 
funnel  and  masts  sombrely  defined  themselves  above 
the  black  of  her  hull.  "We  '11  be  able  to  hail  her  in 
another  minute." 

And  still  she  grew,  rising  at  length  a  great  frown- 
ing fortress-like  wall  above  us,  with  here  and  there 
a  gleaming  port-hole,  but  silent,  save  for  the  lap  of 
waters  against  her  side. 

Then  I  heard  the  voice  of  our  helmsman  ring  out, 
and  presently  there  was  an  answering  shout  from 
above,  and  an  exchange  of  greetings,  succeeded  by 
directions;  and  the  next  moment,  I  was  following 
Hartley  up  a  swaying  rope-ladder  to  where  an  outheld 
lantern  glowed  overhead. 

"Yes,  Secretary  to  the  Governor  General,"  I  heard 
my  friend  saying,  as  I  put  foot  on  the  iron  deck. 
"You  're  Captain  Murchison,  I  suppose." 

The  captain's  affirmative  was  more  than  deferential ; 
it  was  obsequious.  He  was  not  a  tall  man,  but  broad, 
rugged  and  bearded,  with  long,  powerful,  gorilla-like 
arms  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  stature.  I  could 
readily  fancy  him  an  ugly  antagonist.  Unaided  by 

24  [369] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

Hartley,  I  concluded,  I  should  have  had  small  chance 
indeed  of  success.  But  the  low-born  Briton's  respect 
for  official  authority  was  evidently  strong  in  him,  and 
I  felt  that  if  Cameron  was  aboard  we  should  be  able 
to  effect  his  rescue  with  a  minimum  of  effort. 

"I  should  like  to  see  you  in  your  cabin,  Captain," 
Hartley  proposed,  and  when  we  were  closeted  there, 
he  continued,  "There  is  a  report  that  you  have 
among  your  crew  a  United  States  subject  who  was 
brought  aboard,  drugged,  and  forced  to  remain 
aboard  against  his  will.  His  government  has  in- 
terested itself  in  his  behalf,  and  unless  he  is  restored 
at  once  to  his  friends  serious  complications  will  un- 
doubtedly ensue." 

The  captain,  despite  his  respect  for  authority, 
frowned. 

"There 's  nothing  to  that  report,  sir,"  he  said, 
boldly.  "I  'm  not  shanghaiing  men  in  these  days, 
sir.  Every  mother's  son  I  've  got  on  this  boat 
shipped  for  Hong  Kong,  sir,  of  his  own  free  will 
and  accord." 

"I  dare  say  you  fully  believe  that,  Captain 
Murchison,"  was  Hartley's  diplomatic  rejoinder, 
"but  this  time  you  happen  to  be  mistaken.  I  don't 
suppose  you  have  any  objection  to  our  inspecting  your 
crew,  have  you?  Suppose  you  have  both  the  watches 

[870] 


TORTOISE    AND    HARE 

piped  forward,  and  we  '11  settle  this  little  business  for 
ourselves.  Mr.  Clyde,  here,  knows  the  man." 

Captain  Murchison's  glance  at  me  was  undis- 
guisedly  venomous.  Reluctantly  he  rang  for  his 
steward. 

"Send  the  bo'sun  here,"  he  directed,  doggedly. 

"We'll  begin  at  the  bottom,  Captain,"  Hartley  sug- 
gested, when  the  boatswain,  cap  in  hand,  stood  in  the 
doorway.  "First,  I  want  to  see  every  man  Jack  you 
have  working  in  the  stoke  hold." 

Although  the  master  gave  the  necessary  directions 
I  mistrusted  him.  Between  the  boatswain  and  him- 
self I  felt  that  there  was  an  understanding  which  re- 
quired neither  voicing  nor  signal.  And  as,  a  little 
later,  we  stood  on  the  forward  deck,  under  the  bridge, 
and  by  the  light  of  a  lantern  viewed  one  after  another 
of  those  swarthy,  grimy  laborers  who  had  crowded 
up  from  below,  I  was  convinced  of  the  correctness  of 
my  intuition.  For  Cameron  was  not  among  them. 

And  then  a  chill  fear  gripped  me.  Could  a  man 
of  his  habits  and  training,  suddenly  called  upon  to 
assume  such  labor,  survive  its  rigors?  He  was  nat- 
urally robust,  but  he  had  been  weakened  by  an  ill- 
ness. Might  he  not  therefore  have  succumbed  to  the 
strain,  died,  and  been  buried  at  sea? 

But  one  consideration  sustained  me.     In  their  cun- 

[371] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

ning  cruelty,  the  Chinese  who  had  arranged  for  his 
transportation  must  have  stipulated  that  he  be  de- 
livered in  China  alive.  Otherwise  their  vengeance 
would  not  be  complete.  It  was  not  likely  that  any- 
thing had  been  left  to  mere  chance.  The  probabilities 
were  that  Murchison  knew  definitely  what  was  re- 
quired of  him  and  was  to  be  well  paid  for  his  services. 

Upon  his  seamed  face,  now,  there  was  something 
of  a  sneer  as,  our  examination  concluded,  he  said, 

"What  next,  Mr.  Hartley?" 

But  for  a  moment  Hartley,  who  was  standing 
thoughtfully  with  brow  contracted,  his  lower  lip 
gripped  between  finger  and  thumb,  made  no  response. 
Before  he  spoke  his  attitude  changed.  Quickly  he 
had  assumed  a  pose  of  listening  intentness.  Behind 
us,  somewhere,  a  clamor  had  arisen.  Voices,  excited, 
hoarse,  fremescent,  yet  muffled  by  distance,  echoed 
dully. 

"That  man,  next,  Captain,"  he  said,  coolly.  "The 
man  they  're  trying  to  keep  below." 

It  may  have  been  that  his  hearing  was  more  acute 
than  mine,  or  it  may  only  have  been  a  guess.  I  don't 
know.  But,  whichever  it  was,  it  hit  the  mark.  It 
scored  a  bull's  eye  at  long  range. 

Captain  Murchison's  indifference  gave  way  in- 
stantly to  palpable  uneasiness.  His  hands,  which  had 

[372] 


Casting  himself  forward  into  my  arms,  buried  his  face  in  the 
angle  of  my  neck  and  shoulder. 


TORTOISE    AND    HARE 

been  deep  in  his  coat  pockets,  came  out  as  though 
jerked  by  springs.  One  of  them  canted  his  cap  from 
his  brow  to  his  crown  and  the  other  clutched  agitatedly 
at  his  beard.  And  in  that  moment  the  riot  advanced, 
the  voices  waxed  louder  and  more  distinct ;  scurrying 
feet  resounded  on  the  metal  deck. 

I  saw  the  captain  start  hurriedly  toward  the  star- 
board rail,  intent  evidently  on  meeting  the  rabble 
which  was  approaching  on  that  side,  and  I  saw 
Hartley  boldly  block  his  way.  And  then,  almost  at 
the  same  instant,  I  saw  a  tall  figure  with  naked  torso 
as  black  and  shining  as  polished  ebony  —  black  with 
grime  and  shining  with  sweat  —  come  running  back- 
ward around  the  corner  of  the  deck  house.  Saw  it 
with  an  iron  bar  held  menacingly  aloft  against  its 
pressing  pursuers;  and  even  in  the  uncertain  light  of 
the  deck  lanterns,  recognized  it  at  once,  by  its  outline 
and  the  characteristic  set  of  its  head  upon  its  shoul- 
ders, nude  to  the  waist  and  collied  as  it  was,  as  the 
figure  of  the  man  I  sought. 

"Cameron!"  I  cried,  chokingly,  my  fast-beating 
heart  crowding  my  utterance.  And  all  unmindful 
of  the  dirt  which  covered  him  I  flung  my  arms  about 
Lis  waist  from  behind.  "Cameron!  Cameron! 
Thank  God!  Thank  God!" 

I  heard  the  iron  bar  drop  resoundingly  to  the  deck ; 

[373] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

I  heard  Hartley's  voice  raised  in  anger,  strident, 
staccato;  and  I  heard  the  receding  shuffle  of  feet  as 
those  who  had  pursued  now  backed  away.  There  fol- 
lowed then  a  moment  of  silence,  while  the  body  I  had 
held  twisted  out  of  my  arms,  and  having  released  it- 
self, turned  and  faced  me  —  a  moment  of  silence, 
only,  for  against  the  sudden  stillness  there  now  rang 
out  a  weird,  palpitant  cry,  born  of  surcharged  emotion, 
as  Cameron,  casting  himself  forward  into  my  arms, 
buried  his  face  in  the  angle  of  my  neck  and  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A  FINAL   PROBLEM 

TT  is  doubtful  whether  in  all  Egypt  there  was  ever 
such  another  period  of  joyous  thanksgiving  as 
that  which  followed  the  bringing  of  Cameron  to  the 
little  hotel  in  Port  Said.  I  am  inclined  to  question, 
too,  whether  in  the  space  of  a  single  waking  day  four 
persons  ever  talked  more,  or  with  more  mutual  inter- 
est, than  did  the  four  of  us  there  gathered.  The  heat, 
the  flies,  the  poor  food,  and  the  miserable  accommoda- 
tions, generally,  were  not  merely  gladly  tolerated,  but 
absolutely  disregarded.  In  the  exuberance  of  our 
rejoicing,  annoyances  which  had  loomed  large  on  the 
preceding  day  dwindled  to  the  imperceivable ;  and 
from  early  morning  until  late  night  experiences  were 
exchanged,  adventures  told  and  speculations  indulged 
in,  to  an  accompaniment  of  glad  laughter  and  happy 
tears. 

Washed,  scrubbed,  shaved,  shorn,  and  clad  in  rai- 
ment put  at  his  disposal  by  the  indefatigable  Hartley, 
Cameron  appeared  wonderfully  well-looking.  In- 
deed I  was  amazed  by  his  appearance  and  by  his 

[375] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

condition.  I  had  feared  to  find  him  a  mental  and 
physical  ruin.  I  had  feared  even  for  his  life.  And 
he  had  come  to  us,  if  we  might  judge  by  outward 
seeming,  stronger,  more  robust,  less  nervously  relaxed 
than  when  he  disappeared. 

"At  first,"  he  told  us,  as  we  sat  at  breakfast  in  a 
little  upper  room  of  the  hotel,  Evelyn  close  on  his 
right,  Dr.  Addison  at  his  left,  and  I  opposite  him, 
"I  suppose  I  did  suffer,  whenever  I  was  conscious, 
which,  fortunately,  I  think,  was  comparatively  sel- 
dom. They  dosed  me  almost  continuously  with  what 
I  believe  to  have  been  some  attribute  of  opium,  so 
that  even  in  my  waking  moments  I  was  not  wholly 
normal.  In  this  way,  of  course,  I  lost  all  count  of 
time.  And  so,  too,  I  am  unable  to  give  events  in 
sequence.  My  first  conscious  moment  after  being  on 
the  deck  of  the  Sibylla  found  me  strapped  in  a 
narrow  berth  on  a  rapid,  but  rather  rough-riding  craft 
of  apparently  much  smaller  dimension  than  the  yacht, 
and  with  a  Chinese  boy  sitting  beside  me.  You  can 
fancy  my  startled  amazement  at  the  sudden  transi- 
tion. In  vain  I  asked  questions.  In  vain  I  struggled 
to  rise.  Then  I  shouted,  and  the  Chinese  boy  lighted 
what  appeared  to  be  an  ordinary  joss-stick  on  a  stand 
at  the  head  of  my  berth,  and  withdrew  from  the  tiny 
cabin.  Insensibility  followed  quickly.  After  that  I 

[S76] 


A    FINAL    PROBLEM 

have  a  vague,  dreamy  recollection  of  eating  something 
with  a  strange,  spicy  flavor,  which  seemed  only  to 
add  to  my  stupor.  Once  I  dreamed  —  at  least  I 
think  it  must  have  been  a  dream, —  that  I  was  in  a 
dark  box,  so  cramped  that  my  bones  ached,  and  that 
far  away  above  me  were  little  holes  through  which 
the  light  came  in  luminous  fan-like  rays  that  glowed 
against  the  black." 

"I  'm  inclined  to  think  it  was  no  dream,"  I  put  in, 
recalling  the  newspaper  story  I  had  read  in  my  brok- 
er's office,  in  Wall  Street.  "The  probabilities  are 
that  you  were  shipped  in  that  box  from  Fall  River 
to  New  York,  and  a  certain  influential  Chinaman, 
called  Yup  Sing,  knew  all  about  it." 

"It 's  quite  possible,"  Cameron  went  on.  "I  know 
that  it  was  very  difficult  to  distinguish,  in  those  days, 
between  dreams  and  realities.  Eventually,  however, 
I  awoke  to  find  myself  on  the  Glamorganshire, 
quartered  with  the  men  in  the  forecastle,  a  beard 
well  grown  and  my  clothes  the  coarsest  sort  of  mar- 
iner's outfit.  For  a  while  I  was  far  too  ill  for  labor. 
The  reaction  from  the  drugs  which  had  been  adminis- 
tered caused  me  the  keenest  suffering.  But,  gradu- 
ally, I  came  about,  and  was  set  to  work  with  paint 
pot  and  brush.  The  humanity  shown  me  at  this  time 
was  surprising.  I  couldn't  comprehend  it.  But  I 

[877] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

realized  eventually  that  my  strength  was  being  fos- 
tered for  future  torment." 

"Why  didn't  you  explain,  dear,  to  the  captain?" 
Evelyn  asked,  with  one  of  those  bursts  of  naivete  that 
contrasted  so  charmingly  with  her  usually  abounding 
good  judgment. 

Cameron  smiled.  "I  couldn't  get  near  the  cap- 
tain, my  child,"  he  returned,  indulgently.  "It  was  n't 
because  I  did  n't  try.  The  officers  ridiculed  my  as- 
sertions as  pipe  dreams,  and  when,  at  each  port,  I 
pleaded  to  be  allowed  to  communicate  with  our  con- 
sul, I  was  only  kept  under  stricter  guard." 

And  so  his  story  continued,  interrupted  at  intervals 
by  questions  from  one  or  another  of  us,  until  we  had 
the  whole  wretched  tale  of  cruelty,  including  the  final 
chapter  which  preceded  the  rescue. 

When  he  learned  that  every  stoker  and  trimmer, 
save  himself,  had  been  ordered  on  deck,  still  hoping 
against  hope  that  the  outside  world  had  at  length  been 
moved  to  intercession  in  his  behalf,  he  demanded  to 
be  allowed  to  go  with  the  rest.  And  when  his  demand 
was  refused  he  rebelled,  fighting  his  way  to  liberty 
with  an  iron  bar  from  a  cinder-tub,  which  he  had  pur- 
posely concealed  for  such  emergency. 

I  have  no  inclination  to  test  patience  by  detailing 
all  the  events  and  recording  all  the  dialogue  of  that 

[378] 


A    FINAL    PROBLEM 

happy  day.  Much  that  happened  and  much  that  was 
said  I  must  leave  to  the  imagination  of  those  that  read. 
But  I  cannot  refrain  from  the  statement  that  Cam- 
eron's meeting  and  reconciliation  with  his  old  friend 
Dr.  Addison  was  one  of  the  brightest  spots  in  a  de- 
lectable constellation.  The  meeting  between  Evelyn 
and  her  uncle  was  an  episode,  too,  to  touch  the  sensi- 
bility of  the  most  apathetic.  And  if  there  had  lin- 
gered a  single  doubt  as  to  the  wisdom  or  expediency 
of  accepting  their  companionship  on  my  expedition  of 
rescue,  it  must  have  been  dispelled  by  the  emotional 
thrill  which  these  scenes  provoked. 

Our  homeward  voyage,  which  all  of  us  were  anx- 
ious should  not  be  delayed,  was  by  way  of  Naples. 
Hartley,  who  appeared  to  be  able  to  go  and  come  as 
he  pleased,  accompanied  us  that  far,  and  our  farewells 
to  him,  on  the  deck  of  the  Koenig  Albert,  were  com- 
bined with  a  fervor  of  gratitude  that  exhausted  our 
powers  of  expression. 

Evelyn  begged  me  to  be  permitted  to  kiss  him 
good-bye,  but  there  I  was  forced  to  draw  the  line. 
Her  caresses  in  my  own  direction  had  not,  up  to  that 
moment,  been  so  lavish  that  I  felt  I  could  spare  any  of 
them,  even  for  this  young  Englishman,  notwithstand- 
ing my  abundant  appreciation  of  the  inestimable  serv- 
ice he  had  rendered.  And  that  was  precisely  what  I 

[379] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

told  her,  when  on  the  first  evening  out,  she  had  de- 
manded to  know  my  reasons  for  refusal. 

"You  're  a  very  selfish  man,"  she  retorted,  with  a 
pout.  "And  I  'm  not  at  all  sure,  now,  that  I  shall 
ever  kiss  you  again.  Besides — "  And  there  she 
stopped. 

We  had  reached  the  after  end  of  the  deck  in  our 
post-dinner  promenade,  and  had  paused  there,  lean- 
ing on  the  rail,  to  watch  the  phosphorescent  gleam 
and  glitter  among  the  turbulent  white  wake-waters. 
Cameron  and  Dr.  Addison  were  talking  over  their 
cigars  in  steamer  chairs  amidships,  and  the  girl  and  I 
were  alone  together  for  the  first  time  since  her 
uncle's  restoration. 

"Besides?"  I  repeated,  questioningly. 

The  big  blue  eyes  she  turned  to  me  were  never  more 
roguish. 

"Besides,"  she  said,  low-voiced  and  with  a  just  per- 
ceptible quiver,  "until  you  keep  your  promise,  I 
don't  see  that  you  have  any  right  to  dictate  to  me." 

I  knew  very  well  what  she  meant.  Ever  since 
Cameron  had  come  running  backward  around  that 
deck-house  corner  —  I  think  even  at  the  minute  I 
recognized  his  naked,  smut-covered  shoulders  —  I  had 
had  that  promise  in  mind,  and  had  longed  for  the 
moment  of  its  fulfilment.  But  till  now  not  even  the 

[380] 


A    FINAL    PROBLEM 

briefest  opportunity  had  offered.  Nevertheless,  her 
present  mood  was  too  entirely  winsomely  lovable  to 
be  neglected,  and  the  impulse  to  prolong  it  by  teasing 
too  strong  for  resistance. 

"Keep  my  promise?"  I  queried,  mingling  with 
assumed  perplexity  a  certain  suggestion  of  injury. 
"Have  I  ever  failed  you  in  anything?" 

She  turned  away  now,  silently,  and  the  eclipse  of 
the  eyes  I  loved  left  me  suddenly  repentant;  still  I 
persisted. 

"Have  I  ever  failed  you?"  I  asked  again. 

Quickly  her  gaze  came  back,  and  her  eyes  had  taken 
something  of  the  cold,  snapping  fire  of  the  phos- 
phorus. 

"Since  you  don't  remember,"  she  said,  "it 's  of  no 
consequence.  Only  you  were  so  sure  that  you 
could  n't  forget." 

"Give  me  a  hint,"  I  begged,  still  cruel.  "When 
did  I  promise?" 

"I  could  n't  be  so  unmaidenly,"  was  her  retort,  look- 
ing away  again. 

"Was  it  before  we  came  over  here,  or  since?" 

"Before,"  after  a  pause. 

"Long  before?" 

"Not  very." 

"Where?    At  your  house?" 

[381] 


THE     SABLE    LORCHA 

"Yes." 

"In  the  library?"  I  asked,  with  a  glance  behind  for 
possible  intruders. 

She  turned  quickly  and  found  me  laughing. 

"Oh,  you  dear,  silly,  lovable,  delightful  child!"  I 
cried,  and  the  echo  of  my  words  was  carried  far 
astern,  as  my  arms  went  about  her  and  held  her  close, 
and  my  kisses  fell  thick  and  fast  on  her  ripe,  tender 
little  mouth. 

"What  need  had  I  to  keep  such  a  promise?"  I  asked, 
when  in  mercy  I  paused  that  she  might  get  her  breath. 
"Why  should  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  that  you  loved  me, 
when  I  could  read  it  in  letters  as  long  as  your  glances 
and  as  bright  as  your  smile?" 

And  if  we  left  Cameron  and  Dr.  Addison  much 
alone  together  during  our  homeward  voyage,  who  that 
still  remembers  their  own  happy  days  of  young  love 
dreaming  can  blame  us? 

For  a  long  while  there  remained  in  my  mind  as 
legacy  from  the  strange  case  of  Cameron  and  the 
Sable  Lorcha  conspiracy  a  seemingly  insoluble  prob- 
lem. On  our  return  to  America,  my  friend,  in  spite 
of  all  my  urging,  refused,  with  stubborn  persistency, 
it  seemed  to  me,  to  aid  in  the  prosecution  of  those  who, 
we  knew  positively,  were  implicated  in  the  affair. 

[382] 


A    FINAL    PROBLEM 

Concerning  Murphy,  Yup  Sing  and  a  score  or  more 
of  their  satellites  we  could  have  produced  evidence  of 
the  most  damaging  character.  But  Cameron  was 
not  so  minded.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  discourage 
my  appearance  against  the  former  for  complicity  in 
the  plot  to  take  captive  Evelyn  and  myself  on  the 
night  of  our  Pell  Street  visit.  Indeed  I  have  always 
believed  that  through  O'Hara  he  was  instrumental  in 
securing  Murphy's  release.  And  I  know  for  a  fact 
that  he  provided  so  generously  for  the  young  French 
driver  of  the  electric  brougham,  who  was  so  badly  in- 
jured in  that  Pell  Street  adventure,  that  the  fellow 
returned  to  France  a  month  before  the  trial  of  his 
assailant. 

All  these  things,  I  say,  continued  to  puzzle  and 
disquiet  me,  long  after  the  sharp  edges  of  rancorous 
remembrance  had  been  worn  away.  And  invariably 
at  such  times  there  would  recur  recollections  of  those 
early  days  of  the  threatening  letters  and  of  that  elu- 
sive something  in  Cameron's  manner  which  I  was 
never  quite  able  to  comprehend  or  explain. 

The  true  interpretation  was  reserved  for  the  night 
preceding  my  marriage  with  Evelyn,  which,  by  the 
way,  had,  at  her  guardian's  wish,  been  delayed  for 
nearly  a  year  because  of  what  he  chose  to  regard  as 
her  unseemly  youth.  The  celebration  was  to  take 

[38S] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

place  at  Cragholt  and  the  house  was  already  filled  with 
kinsfolk  and  intimate  friends,  including  most  of  the 
wedding  party. 

It  was  after  midnight,  and  Cameron  and  I  were 
alone  together  in  his  mahogany  and  green  study ;  he  at 
his  writing  table  and  I  in  the  same  adjacent  leather 
chair  in  which  I  had  sat  a  twelvemonth  ago  while 
listening  to  the  story  of  the  incised  portrait. 

As  was  not  unusual  we  had  reverted  to  that  time 
and  to  certain  of  the  incidents  therewith  connected; 
and  I  had  been  trying  to  make  clear  to  Cameron,  as 
I  had  already  frequently  tried  to  do,  the  peculiar  dif- 
ference between  McXish's  expression  and  his. 

"In  individual  feature,"  I  said,  warming  to  my 
subject,  "there  never  was  in  all  the  world  before,  I 
believe,  such  similarity.  And  in  repose,  the  ensemble, 
I  should  say,  was  equally  identical.  But  when  it  came 
to—" 

And  there  Cameron  checked  me. 

"Clyde,"  and  his  tone  was  strangely  grave,  it 
seemed  to  me,  "you  '11  pardon  my  interrupting  you, 
I  know.  I  understand  what  you  would  say,  probably 
better  than  I  could  from  your  putting  it  into  words. 
And  I  want  to  tell  you  why  I  understand.  Indeed 
I  Ve  wanted  to  tell  you  for  a  long  while,  but  whenever 
I  Ve  got  to  the  verge  of  it,  I  have  balked." 

[384] 


A    FINAL     PROBLEM 

He  paused  here  to  shake  the  ash  from  his  cigar, 
reaching  across  his  desk  for  a  receptacle,  and  somehow 
the  gesture  reminded  me  of  that  of  McNish  as  he 
had  thrown  out  his  arm  which  held  the  letter,  and  so 
exposed  the  telltale  tattooing. 

"I  have  never  told  you,  Clyde,"  he  resumed,  his 
eyes  turned  on  the  glowing  tobacco  ember  which  he 
had  just  bared,  "anything  about  my  birth  or  my 
family.  But  now  that  you  are  to  become  one  of  us, 
in  a  way,  it 's  only  fair  that  you  should  know ;  for 
though  Evelyn's  mother  was  but  my  half-sister, 
still  the  girl  gets  the  same  blood  through  her 
grandsire." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  know  that.  Evelyn  told  me  that 
much.  I  know,  too,  that  you  were  born  in  Scotland; 
and  the  very  name  of  Cameron  is  a  pretty  good 
guarantee  of  family  worth." 

"My  father  belonged  to  a  rather  poor  branch,"  he 
confessed,  "and  like  many  poor  men  he  had  a  large 
number  of  children.  There  were  ten,  all  told,  and 
when  my  poor  mother  died,  it  became  a  serious  prob- 
lem how  to  take  care  of  us  little  ones.  I  was  among 
the  youngest,  not  over  seven,  and  I  had  a  twin 
brother." 

As  he  said  this  Cameron,  who  had  been  desultorily 
drawing  figures  on  his  writing  pad  with  the  end  of  a 

25  [385] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

pen-holder,  abruptly  shot  his  gaze  to  mine  and  caught 
the  quick  question  of  my  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  without  change  of  tone,  "yes,  you 
see,  now,  don't  you?" 

"McNish!"  I  murmured. 

"McNish,"  he  echoed.     "Donald  McNish." 

"But,"  I  began,  "I  don't  quite  — "  and  I  thought 
of  the  letter  from  McNish's  mother. 

"Oh,  it  is  clear  enough,"  he  went  on.  "Some  of  the 
children  were  put  out  to  live  amongst  neighbors,  and 
eventually,  my  father  and  the  rest  of  us  came  to  this 
country.  The  others  he  left  behind,  promising  to 
send  each  month  the  money  for  their  keep.  Donald 
he  left  with  a  couple  named  McNish,  who  had  no 
bairns  of  their  own,  and  when  the  boy  grew  to  be  a 
big  lad,  and  my  father,  who  in  the  meantime  had  been 
successful  here  and  married  again,  sent  for  him  to 
come  to  America,  word  came  back  that  he  had  been 
dead  a  twelvemonth." 

"And  your  father  believed  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  for  they  returned  the  back  pay  he  had 
forwarded,  and  sent  a  lock  of  my  brother's  hair,  I 
think,  and  a  trinket  or  two  that  had  been  his  as  a 
kiddie." 

"Afterwards,  though,  you  learned  that  he  was  still 
alive?" 

[386] 


A    FINAL    PROBLEM 

"No,"  was  Cameron's  answer.  "We  never  heard. 
Had  it  not  been  for  that  marked  resemblance  gather- 
ing me  into  the  net  spread  for  him,  I  should  probably 
never  have  known.  And,  Clyde,"  he  added,  "ever 
since  I  learned  of  his  having  been  there,  in  town,  I 
have  been  wondering.  Do  you  think  it  possible  that 
he  ever  realized  that  he  was  in  his  brother's  house?" 

"Hardly,"  I  said.  "It  does  n't  seem  likely, 
though ;  unless  the  name  and  the  —  He  must  —  Oh, 
certainly,"  I  stumbled,  "he  must  have  realized  that 
we  mistook  him  for  —  yes,  for  some  one  named  Cam- 
eron. He  answered  to  it  readily  enough ;  he  even  in- 
sisted that  he  was  Cameron.  And  if  his  mind  was 
clear  enough  to  put  two  and  two  together,  why,  know- 
ing that  he  had  a  twin  brother  in  America,  it  would 
seem  — "  And  there  I  stopped  my  floundering,  for 
Cameron  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  smiling,  tolerantly, 
was  waving  a  hushing  hand  at  me. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "I  Ve  argued  it  all  out  in  just 
the  same  way,  dear  friend.  And  yet  we  never  can  be 
certain,  can  we?  Only  I  have  thought,  if  he  might 
have  realized  it,  and  have  been«able  to  have  played  the 
part,  and  stayed,  and  taken  up  my  life  and  lived  it 
for  the  rest  of  his,  I  might  have  gone  on  and  taken 
his  punishment  to  some  purpose.  For  I  have  had 
more  than  my  share  of  the  good  things,  Clyde,  and 

[387] 


THE     SABLE     LORCHA 

maybe  if  poor  little  Donnie  had  had  even  half  my 
chances,  it  would  all  have  been  so  very,  very  dif- 
erent." 

He  still  thought  of  him  as  the  child  brother  he  had 
parted  from  long  years  ago  in  Scotland,  and  as  such 
he  would  ever  remember  him.  I  was  glad  then  that 
he  had  stopped  me  when  I  had  tried  to  draw  for  him 
the  difference  in  their  faces.  For  it  was  such  a  dif- 
ference! Looking  at  Cameron  now  with  the  lamp 
of  true  greatness  alight  behind  those  plain  features, 
I  marvelled  that  I  could  even  have  seen  a  vestage  of 
likeness  in  the  brutal,  soulless  face  of  his  twin 
brother. 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  too,  I  really  under- 
stood. 


THE   END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  056  505     1 


